The Frontier Part 20

She suddenly stepped in front of Marthe and stammered:

"The ... the shots ... last night...."

Marthe, pale with anxiety, did not reply. She had had the same awful thought from the first moment.

But Suzanne exclaimed:

"In any case, Marthe, you need not be alarmed. Philippe did not take the road by the frontier."

"Are you sure?"

"We separated at the Carrefour du Grand-Chene. M. Morestal and papa went on by themselves. Philippe came straight back."

"No, he can't have come straight back, or he would be here now," said Marthe. "What can he have been doing all night? He has not even set foot in his room!"

But Mme. Morestal was terrified by what Suzanne had said. She could now no longer doubt that her husband had taken the frontier-road; and the shots had come from the frontier!

"Yes, that's true," said Suzanne, "but it was only ten o'clock when we started from Saint-elophe and the shots which you heard were fired at one or two o'clock in the morning.... You said so yourself."

"How can I tell?" cried the old lady, who was beginning to lose her head entirely. "It may have been much earlier."

"But your father must know," said Marthe to Suzanne. "Did he tell you nothing?"

"I have not seen my father this morning," said Suzanne. "He was not awake...."

She had not time to finish her sentence before an idea burst in upon her, an idea so natural that the two other women were struck by it also and none of them dared put it into words.

Suzanne flew to the door, but Marthe held her back. Why not telephone to Saint-elophe, to the special commissary's house?

A minute later, M. Jorance's servant replied that she had just noticed that her master was not in. His bed had not been touched either.

"Oh!" said Suzanne, trembling all over. "My poor father!... Can anything have happened to him?... My poor father! I ought to have...."

They stood for a moment as though paralyzed, all three, and incapable of taking a resolution. The man-servant went out saying that he would saddle the horse and gallop to the Col du Diable.

Marthe, who was nearest to the telephone, rang up the mayor's office at Saint-elophe, on the off-chance, and asked for news. They knew nothing there. But two gendarmes, it seemed, had just crossed the square at a great pace. Thereupon, at the suggestion of Mme. Morestal, who had taken up the second receiver, she asked to be put on to the gendarmery. As soon as she was connected, she explained her reason for telephoning and was informed that the sergeant was on his way to the frontier with a peasant who declared that he had found the body of a man in the woods between the b.u.t.te-aux-Loups and the Col du Diable. That was all they were able to tell her....

Mme. Morestal let go the receiver and fell in a dead faint. Marthe and Suzanne tried to attend to her. But their hands trembled and, when Catherine, the maid-servant, appeared upon the scene, they both ran out of the room, roused by a sudden energy and an immense need of doing something, of walking, of laying eyes upon that dead body whose blood-stained image obsessed their minds.

They went down the stairs of the terrace and scurried in the direction of the etang-des-Moines. They had not gone fifty yards, when they were pa.s.sed by Victor, who galloped by on horseback and shouted:

"Go in, go in! What's the use? I shall be back again!"

They went on nevertheless. But two roads offered: Suzanne wanted to take the one leading to the pa.s.s, on the left; Marthe, the one on the right, through the woods. They exchanged sharp words, blocking each other's way.

Suddenly, Suzanne, without knowing what she was saying, flung herself into her friend's arms, blurting out:

"I must tell you.... It is my duty.... Besides, it is all my fault...."

Marthe, enraged and not understanding the words, which she was to remember so clearly later, spoke to her roughly:

"You're quite mad to-day," she said. "Leave me alone, do."

She darted into the woods and, in a few minutes, came to an abandoned quarry. The path went no further. She had a fit of fury, was on the verge of throwing herself on the ground and bursting into tears and then retraced her steps, for she thought she heard some one call. It was Suzanne, who had seen a man coming from the frontier on horseback and who had vainly tried to make herself heard. He was no doubt bringing news....

Panting and exhausted, they went back again. But there was no one at the Old Mill, no one but Mme. Morestal and Catherine, who were praying on the terrace. All the servants had gone off, without plan or purpose, in search of information; and the man on the horse, a peasant, had pa.s.sed without looking up.

Then they dropped on a bench near the bal.u.s.trade and sat stupefied, worn out by the effort which they had just made; and horrible minutes followed. Each of the three women thought of her own special sorrow and each, besides, suffered the anguish of the unknown disaster that threatened all three of them. They dared not look at one another. They dared not speak, although the silence tortured them. The least sound represented a source of foolish hope or horrid dread; and, with their eyes fixed on the line of dark woods, they waited.

Suddenly, they rose with a start. Catherine, who was keeping a look-out on the steps of the staircase, had sprung to her feet:

"There's Henriot!" she cried.

"Henriot?" echoed Mme. Morestal.

"Yes, the gardener's boy: I can make him out from here."

"Where? We haven't seen him come."

"He must have taken a short cut.... He is coming up the stairs....

Quick, Henriot!... Hurry!... Do you know anything?"

She pulled open the gate and a lad of fifteen or so, his face bathed in perspiration, appeared.

He at once said:

"There's a deserter been killed ... a German deserter."

And the three women were forthwith overcome with a great sense of peace.

After the rush of events that had come upon them like a tempest, it seemed to them as though nothing could touch them now. The phantom of death vanished from their minds. A man had been shot, no doubt, but that didn't matter, because the man was not one of theirs. And the gladness that revived them was such that they could almost have laughed.

And, once again, Catherine appeared. She announced that Victor was returning. And the three women saw a man spurring his horse at the mouth of the pa.s.s, at the imminent risk of breaking his neck on the steep slope of the road. It was soon apparent, when the man reached the etang-des-Moines, that some one was following him with swift strides; and Marthe uttered cries of joy at recognizing the tall figure of her husband.

She waved her handkerchief. Philippe answered the signal.

"It's he!" she said, almost swooning. "It's he, mamma.... I am sure that he'll be able to tell us everything ... and that M. Morestal is not far off...."

"Let us go and meet them," Suzanne suggested.

"Yes, I'll go," said Marthe, quickly. "You stay here, Suzanne ... stay with mamma."

She darted away, eager to be the first to welcome Philippe and recovering enough strength to run to the bottom of the slope:

"Philippe! Philippe!" she cried. "You are back at last...."

He lifted her off the ground and pressed her to him:

"My darling, I hear that you have been uneasy.... You need not have been.... I will tell you all about it...."