The Frontier Part 10

"Yes, there is...."

"Why?"

"The Borsweilen regiment is manoeuvring on the slopes of the Vosges.

If you'll lend us a hand, I'll run down to Saint-elophe first, buy a suit of second-hand French peasant's clothes and go and find my man.

Then I'll bring him to the old barn in your little farm to-night ... as I have done before...."

"Where is he at this moment?"

"His company is quartered in the Albern Woods."

"But that's next door to the frontier!" cried Morestal. "An hour's walk, no more."

"Just so; but how he is to reach the frontier? Where is he to cross it?"

"That's quite easy," said Morestal, taking up a pencil and a sheet of note-paper. "Look, here are the Albern Woods. Here's the Col du Diable.

Here's the b.u.t.te-aux-Loups.... Well, he's only got to leave the woods by the Fontaine-Froide and take the first path to the left, by the Roche de ..."

He suddenly interrupted himself, looked at Dourlowski with a suspicious air and said:

"But you know the road as well as I do ... there's no doubt about that.... So ..."

"My word," said Dourlowski, "I always go by the Col du Diable and the factory."

Morestal reflected for a moment, scribbled a few lines and a few words in an absent-minded sort of way and then, with a movement of quick resolution, took the sheet of note-paper, crumpled it into a ball and flung it into the waste-paper basket:

"No, no, certainly not!" he cried. "I've had enough of this nonsense!

One succeeds four times; and, at the fifth attempt.... Besides, it's not a business I care about.... A soldier's a soldier ... whatever uniform he wears...."

"Still ..." mumbled Dourlowski.

"I refuse. Not to mention that they suspect me over yonder. The German commissary gives me a queer look when he meets me; and I won't risk ..."

"You're risking nothing."

"That'll do; and clear out of this as fast as you can.... Oh, wait a second!... I think I ... Listen ..."

Morestal ran to the windows overlooking the garden. Quick as thought, Dourlowski stooped and fished Morestal's crumpled sheet out of the waste-paper basket. He hid it in the palm of his hand and, raising his voice:

"We'll say no more about it, as you don't see your way to help me," he said. "I give it up."

"That's it," said Morestal, who had seen no one in the garden. "You give it up, my friend: it's the best thing you can do."

He took Dourlowski by the shoulders and pushed him towards the terrace:

"Be off ... and don't come back.... There's nothing more for you to do here ... absolutely nothing...."

He hoped to get rid of the fellow without being perceived, but, as he reached the gate, he saw his wife, his son and Marthe come up the staircase, after strolling round the walls of the Old Mill.

Dourlowski took off his hat and distributed bows all round. Then, as soon as the road was clear, he disappeared.

Mme. Morestal expressed her astonishment:

"What! Do you still see that rogue of a Dourlowski?"

"Oh, it was an accident!..."

"You are very wrong to have him in the house. We don't even know where he comes from or what his trade is."

"He's a hawker."

"A spy, rather: that's what they say about him."

"Tah! In the pay of which country?"

"Of both, very likely. Victor thinks he saw him with the German commissary, two Sundays ago."

"With Weisslicht? Impossible. He doesn't even know him."

"I'm telling you what they say. In any case, Morestal, be careful with that fellow. He's a bird of ill-omen."

"Come, come, mother, no hard words. This is a day of rejoicing.... Are you ready, Philippe?"

CHAPTER VI

THE PLASTER STATUE

There were several ways leading to Saint-elophe. First of all, the high-road, which goes winding down a slope some two miles long; next, a few rather steep short cuts; and, lastly, further north, the forest-path, part of which skirts the ridge of the Vosges.

"Let's go by the road, shall we?" said Morestal to his son.

And, as soon as they had started, he took Philippe's arm and said, gleefully:

"Only think, my boy, at the camp, just now, we met one of the lieutenants of the manoeuvring company. We talked about the Saboureux business and, this evening, he is going to introduce us to his captain, who happens to be a nephew of General Daspry, commanding the army-corps.

So I shall tell him what I have done at the Old Mill, you see; he will report it to his uncle Daspry; and Fort Morestal will be listed at once...."

He beamed with delight, held his head high and flung out his chest, while, with his free hand, he made warlike flourishes with his cane.

Once he even halted and placed himself on guard and stamped his foot on the ground:

"Three appels ... Engage ... Lunge! What do you say to that, Philippe, eh? Old Morestal is game yet!"

Philippe, full of affection for the old man, smiled. Now that he was acting on Marthe's advice and delaying the painful explanation, life seemed better to him, quite simple and quite easy, and he surrendered himself to the pleasure of seeing his father again and the scenes which he loved and renewing the childhood memories that seemed to await him at every turn of the road and to rise up at his approach:

"Do you remember, father? This is where I fell off my bicycle.... I was standing under that tree when it was struck by lightning...."