The Frontier. Морис Леблан
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III
THE VIOLET PAMPHLET
Jorancé was a heavy and rather unwieldy, pleasant-faced man. Twenty-five years before, when secretary to the commissary at Noirmont, he had married a girl of entrancing beauty, who used to teach the piano in a boarding-school. One evening, after four years of marriage, four years of torture, during which the unhappy man suffered every sort of humiliation, Jorancé came home to find the house empty. His wife had gone without a word of explanation, taking their little girl, Suzanne, with her.
The only thing that kept him from suicide was the hope of recovering the child and saving her from the life which her mother's example would have forced upon her in the future.
He did not have to look for her long. A month later, his wife sent back the child, who was no doubt in her way. But the wound had cut deep and lingered; and neither time nor the love which he bore his daughter could wipe out the memory of that cruel story.
He buckled to his work, accepted the most burdensome tasks so as to increase his income and give Suzanne a good education, was transferred to the commissary's office at Lunéville and, somewhat late in life, was promoted to be special commissary at the frontier. The position involved the delicate functions of a sentry on outpost duty whose business it is to see as much as possible of what goes on in the neighbour's country; and Jorancé filled it so conscientiously, tactfully and skilfully that the neighbour aforesaid, while dreading his shrewdness and insight, respected his character and his professional qualities.
At Saint-Élophe, he renewed his intimacy with old Morestal, who was his grand-uncle by marriage and who was very much attached to him.
The two men saw each other almost every day. Jorancé and Suzanne used to dine at the Old Mill on Thursdays and Sundays. Suzanne would also often come alone and accompany the old man on his daily walk. He took a great fancy to her; and it was upon his advice and at the urgent request of Philippe and Marthe Morestal that Jorancé had taken Suzanne to Paris the previous winter.
***
His first words on entering the room were to thank Philippe:
"You can't think, my dear Philippe, how glad I was to leave her with you. Suzanne is young. And I approve of a little distraction."
He looked at Suzanne with the fervent glance of a father who has brought up his daughter himself and whose love for her is mingled with a touch of feminine affection.
And he said to Philippe:
"Have you heard the news? I am marrying her."
"Really?" said Philippe.
"Yes, to one of my cousins at Nancy, a man rather well-on in years, perhaps, but a serious, active and intelligent fellow. Suzanne likes him very much. You do like him very much, don't you, Suzanne?"
The girl seemed not to hear the question and asked:
"Is Marthe in her room, Philippe?"
"Yes, on the second floor."
"I know, the blue room. I was here yesterday, helping Mme. Morestal. I must run up and give her a kiss."
She turned round in the doorway and kissed her hand to the three men, keeping her eyes fixed on Philippe.
"How pretty and charming your daughter is!" said Morestal to Jorancé.
But they could see that he was thinking of something else and that he was eager to change the conversation. He shut the door quickly and, returning to the special commissary, said:
"Did you come by the frontier-road?"
"No."
"And you haven't been told yet?"
"What?"
"The German post … at the Butte-aux-Loups. … "
"Knocked down?"
"Yes."
"Oh, by Jove!"
Morestal stopped to enjoy the effect which he had produced and then continued:
"What do you say to it?"
"I say … I say that it's most annoying. … They're in a very bad temper as it is, on the other side. This means trouble for me."
"Why?"
"Well, of course. Haven't you heard that they're beginning to accuse me of encouraging the German deserters?"
"Nonsense!"
"I tell you, they are. It seems that there's a secret desertion-office in these parts. I'm supposed to be at the head of it. And you, you are the heart and soul of it."
"Oh, they can't stand me at any price!"
"Nor me either. Weisslicht, the German commissary at Börsweilen, has sworn a mortal hatred against me. We cut each other now when we meet. There's not a doubt but that he is responsible for the calumnies."
"But what proofs do they put forward?"
"Any number … all equally bad. … Among others, this: pieces of French gold which are said to have been found on their soldiers. So you see … with the post tumbling down once more, the explanations that are certain to begin all over again, the enquiries that are certain to be opened. … "
Philippe went up to him:
"Come, come, I don't suppose it's so serious as all that."
"You think not, my boy? Then you haven't seen the stop-press telegrams in this morning's papers?"
"No," said Philippe and his father. "What's the news?"
"An incident in Asia Minor. A quarrel between the French and German officials. One of the consuls has been killed."
"Oh, oh!" said Morestal. "This time … "
And Jorancé went into details:
"Yes, the position is exceedingly strained. The Morocco question has been opened again. Then there's the espionage business and the story of the French air-men flying over the fortresses in Alsace and dropping tricolour flags in the Strasburg streets. … For six months, it has been one long series of complications and shocks. The newspapers are becoming aggressive in their language. Both countries are arming, strengthening their defences. In short, in spite of the good intentions of the two governments, we are at the mercy of an accident. A spark … and the thing's done."
A heavy silence weighed upon the three men. Each of them conjured up the sinister vision according to his own temperament and instincts.
Jorancé repeated:
"A spark … and the thing's done."
"Well, let it be done!" said Morestal, with an angry gesture.
Philippe gave a start:
"What are you saying, father?"
"Well, what! There must be an end to all this."
"But the end need not be in blood."
"Nonsense … nonsense. … There are injuries that can only be wiped out in blood. And, when a great country like ours has received a slap in the face like that of 1870, it can wait forty years, fifty years, but a day comes when it returns the slap in the face … and with both hands!"
"And suppose we are beaten?" said Philippe.
"Can't be helped! Honour comes first! Besides, we sha'n't be beaten. Let every man do his duty and we shall see! In 1870, as