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105 pages

English

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A HEAD BETWEEN THE BUSHES They've done it! What? The German frontier-post ... at the circus of the Butte-aux-Loups. What about it? Knocked down. Nonsense! See for yourself.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819906841
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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PART I
CHAPTER I
A HEAD BETWEEN THE BUSHES "They've done it!" "What?""The German frontier-post ... at the circus of theButte-aux-Loups." "What about it?" "Knocked down." "Nonsense!" "Seefor yourself."
Old Morestal stepped aside. His wife came out of thedrawing-room and went and stood by the telescope, on its tripod, atthe end of the terrace. "I can see nothing," she said, presently."Don't you see a tree standing out above the others, with lighterfoliage?" "Yes." "And, to the right of that tree, a little lowerdown, an empty space surrounded by fir-trees?" "Yes." "That's thecircus of the Butte-aux-Loups and it marks the frontier at thatspot." "Ah, I've got it!... There it is!... You mean on the ground,don't you? Lying flat on the grass, exactly as if it had beenrooted up by last night's storm...." "What are you talking about?It has been fairly felled with an axe: you can see the gash fromhere." "So I can ... so I can...."
She stood up and shook her head: "That makes thethird time this year.... It will mean more unpleasantness.""Fiddle-de-dee!" he exclaimed. "All they've got to do is to put upa solid post, instead of their old bit of wood." And he added, in atone of pride, "The French post, two yards off, doesn't budge, youknow!" "Well, of course not! It's made of cast-iron and cementedinto the stone." "Let them do as much then! It's not money they'rewanting ... when you think of the five thousand millions theyrobbed us of!... No, but, I say ... three of them in eightmonths!... How will the people take it, on the other side of theVosges?"
He could not hide the sort of gay and sarcasticfeeling of content that filled his whole being and he walked up anddown the terrace, stamping his feet as hard as he could on theground.
But, suddenly going to his wife, he seized her bythe arm and said, in a hollow voice: "Would you like to know what Ireally think?" "Yes." "Well, all this will lead to trouble." "No,"said the old lady, quietly. "How do you mean, no?" "We've beenmarried five-and-thirty years; and, for five-and-thirty years,you've told me, week after week, that we shall have trouble. So,you see...."
She turned away from him and went back to thedrawing-room again, where she began to dust the furniture with afeather-broom.
He shrugged his shoulders, as he followed herindoors: "Oh, yes, you're the placid mother, of course! Nothingexcites you. As long as your cupboards are tidy, your linen allcomplete and your jams potted, you don't care!... Still, you oughtnot to forget that they killed your poor father." "I don't forgetit ... only, what's the good? It's more than forty years ago....""It was yesterday," he said, sinking his voice, "yesterday, nolonger ago than yesterday...." "Ah, there's the postman!" she said,hurrying to change the conversation.
She heard a heavy footstep outside the windowsopening on the garden. There was a rap at the knocker on thefront-door. A minute later, Victor, the man-servant, brought in theletters. "Oh!" said Mme. Morestal. "A letter from the boy.... Openit, will you? I haven't my spectacles.... I expect it's to say thathe will arrive this evening: he was to have left Paris thismorning." "Not at all!" cried M. Morestal, glancing over theletter. "Philippe and his wife have taken their two boys to somefriends at Versailles and started with the intention of sleepinglast night at the Ballon de Colnard, seeing the sunrise and doingthe rest of the journey on foot, with their knapsacks on theirbacks. They will be here by twelve."
She at once lost her head: "And the storm! Whatabout last night's storm?" "My son doesn't care about the storm! Itwon't be the first that the fellow's been through. It's eleveno'clock. He will be with us in an hour." "But that will never do!There's nothing ready for them!"
She at once went to work, like the active little oldwoman that she was, a little too fat, a little tired, butwide-awake still and so methodical, so orderly in her ways that shenever made a superfluous movement or one that was not calculated tobring her an immediate advantage.
As for him, he resumed his walk between the terraceand the drawing-room. He strode with long, even steps, holding hisbody erect, his chest flung out and his hands in the pockets of hisjacket, a blue-drill gardening-jacket, with the point of apruning-shears and the stem of a pipe sticking out of it. He wastall and broad-shouldered; and his fresh-coloured face seemed youngstill, in spite of the fringe of white beard in which it wasframed. "Ah," he exclaimed, "what a treat to set eyes upon our dearPhilippe again! It must be three years since we saw him last. Yes,of course, not since his appointment as professor of history inParis. By Jove, the chap has made his way in the world! What a timewe shall give him during the fortnight that he's with us! Walking... exercise.... He's all for the open-air life, like oldMorestal!"
He began to laugh: "Shall I tell you what would bethe thing for him? Six months in camp between this and Berlin!""I'm not afraid," she declared. "He's been through the NormalSchool. The professors keep to their garrisons in time of war.""What nonsense are you talking now?" "The school-master told meso."
He gave a start: "What! Do you mean to say you stillspeak to that dastard?" "He's quite a decent man," she replied."He! A decent man! With theories like his!"
She hurried from the room, to escape the explosion.But Morestal was fairly started: "Yes, yes, theories! I insist uponthe word: theories! As a district-councillor, as Mayor ofSaint-Élophe, I have the right to be present at his lessons. Oh,you have no idea of his way of teaching the history of France!...In my time, the heroes were the Chevalier d'Assas, Bayard, La Tourd'Auvergne, all those beggars who shed lustre on our country.Nowadays, it's Mossieu Étienne Marcel, Mossieu Dolet.... Oh, a niceset of theories, theirs!"
He barred the way to his wife, as she entered theroom again, and roared in her face: "Do you know why Napoleon lostthe battle of Waterloo?" "I can't find that large breakfast-cupanywhere," said Mme. Morestal, engrossed in her occupation. "Well,just ask your school-master; he'll give you the latest up-to-datetheories about Napoleon." "I put it down here, on this chest, withmy own hand." "But there, they're doing all they can to distort thechildren's minds." "It spoils my set." "Oh, I swear to you, in theold days, we'd have ducked our school-master in the horse-pond, ifhe had dared.... But, by Jove, France had a place of her own in theworld then! And such a place! ... That was the time ofSolferino!... Of Magenta!... We weren't satisfied with chuckingdown frontier-posts in those days: we crossed the frontiers ... andat the double, believe me...."
He stopped, hesitating, pricking up his ears.Trumpet-blasts sounded in the distance, ringing from valley tovalley, echoing and re-echoing against the obstacles formed by thegreat granite rocks and dying away to right and left, as thoughstifled by the shadow of the forests.
He whispered, excitedly: "The French bugle...." "Areyou sure?" "Yes, there are troops of Alpines manoeuvring ... acompany from Noirmont.... Listen ... listen.... What gaiety!...What swagger!... I tell you, close to the frontier like this, ittakes such an air...."
She listened too, seized with the same excitement,and asked, anxiously: "Do you really think that war is possible?""Yes," he replied, "I do."
They were silent for a moment. And Morestalcontinued: "It's a presentiment with me.... We shall have it allover again, as in 1870.... And, mark you, I hope that this time..."
She put down her breakfast-cup, which she had foundin a cupboard, and, leaning on her husband's arm: "I say, the boy'scoming ... with his wife. She's a dear girl and we're very fond ofher.... I want the house to look nice for them, bright and full offlowers.... Go and pick the best you have in your garden."
He smiled: "That's another way of saying that I'mboring you, eh? I can't help it. I shall be just the same to mydying day. The wound is too deep ever to heal."
They looked at each other for a while with a greatgentleness, like two old travelling-companions, who, from time totime, for no particular reason, stop, exchange glances or thoughtsand then resume their journey.
He asked: "Must I cut my roses? My Gloires deDijon?" "Yes." "Come along then! I'll be a hero!" *
Morestal, the son and grandson of well-to-dofarmers, had increased his fathers' fortune tenfold by setting up amechanical saw-yard at Saint-Élophe, the big neighbouring village.He was a plain, blunt man, as he himself used to say, "with nofalse bottom, nothing in my hands, nothing up my sleeves;" just afew moral ideas to guide his course through life, ideas as old andsimple as could be. And those few ideas themselves were subject toa principle that governed his whole existence and ruled all hisactions, the love of his country, which, in Morestal, stood forregret for the past, hatred of the present and, especially, thebitter recollection of defeat.
Elected Mayor of Saint-Élophe and adistrict-councillor, he sold his works and built, within view ofthe frontier, on the site of a ruined mill, a large house designedafter his own plans and constructed, so to speak, under his owneyes. The Morestals had lived here for the last ten years, withtheir two servants: Victor, a decent, stout, jolly-faced man, andCatherine, a Breton woman who had nursed Philippe as a baby.
They saw but few people, outside a small number offriends, of whom the most frequent visitors were the specialcommissary of the government, Jorancé, and his daughterSuzanne.
The Old Mill occupied the round summit of a hillwith slopes shelving down in a series of fairly large gardens,which Morestal cultivated with genuine enthusiasm. The property wassurrounded by a high wall, the top of which was finished off withan iron trellis bristling with spikes. A spring leapt from place toplace and fell in cascades to