Copyright, 1912, By Maurice Leblanc Copyright, 1912, By George H. Doran Company  ...

"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." Old Morestal stepped aside. His wife came out of the drawing-room and went and stood by the telescope, on its tripod, at the end of the terrace. "I can see nothing," she said, presently. "Don't you see a tree standing out above the others, with lighter foliage?" "Yes." "And, to the right of that tree, a little lower down, an empty space

"He hasn't changed a bit.... His complexion is as fresh as ever.... The eyes are a little tired, perhaps ... but he's looking very well...." "When you've finished picking me to pieces, between you!" said Philippe, laughing. "What an inspection! Why don't you give my wife a kiss? That's more to the point!" Marthe flung herself into Mme. Morestal's arms and into her father-in-law's and was examined from head to foot in her turn. "I say, I say, we're thinner in the face than we were!... We want pic

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 o

Marthe and Suzanne were very intimate, in spite of the difference in their ages. Marthe was full of indulgent kindness for her friend, whom she had known as quite a child, motherless and left to herself; whereas Suzanne was less even-tempered with Marthe, now gushing and coaxing, now aggressive and satirical, but always full of charm. When Marthe had finished unfastening the trunks, Suzanne herself insisted on emptying the travelling-bag and arranging on the table all the little things with whic

A hand was passed through the bars of the gate at the top of the staircase leading to the terrace and seized the clapper of the little bell fastened to one of the bars. A push ... and the gate was open. "Not much difficulty about that," said the man, carefully stepping on to the terrace. "Since the mountain won't come to Dourlowski, Dourlowski must ..." The man stopped: he had heard voices. But, on listening, he found that the sound of voices came from behind the house. He quietly entered the dr

There were several ways leading to Saint-Élophe. 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 manœuvring company. We

"There!" she said, after a few minutes. "The storm is over." She raised her beautiful face, now lit with a smile: "No black on my eye-lashes, you see," she added, gaily. "No rouge on my lips.... Take note, please.... Nothing that comes off!" This versatility of mood, the despair, which he had felt to be real, followed by a light-heartedness which he felt to be equally sincere; all this bewildered Philippe. She began to laugh: "Philippe! Philippe! You look as though you did not understand much ab

The road which Morestal and his friend followed first makes a bend and climbs the wooded side of a ravine. It was formerly used for foresting purposes and is still paved with large stones which are covered with mud after a rainy day and make the ascent slippery and difficult. Morestal was panting for breath when he reached the top: "We ought ..." he said, "to see ... Philippe from here." Faint clouds dimmed the light of the moon, but still, at certain places denuded of trees, they were able to d

Suzanne Jorancé pushed the swing-gate and entered the grounds of the Old Mill. She was dressed in white and her face looked fresh and cool under a large hat of Leghorn straw, with its black-velvet strings hanging loose upon her shoulders. Her short skirt showed her dainty ankles. She walked with a brisk step, using a tall, iron-shod stick, while her disengaged hand crumpled some flowers which she had gathered on the way and which she dropped heedlessly as she went. The Morestals' peaceful house

The three women met in the drawing-room. Mme. Morestal walked up and down in dismay, hardly knowing what she was saying: "Not in!... Philippe neither!... Victor, you must run ... but where to?... Where is he to look?... Oh, it's really too terrible!..." 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 nee

Bare-headed, tangle-haired, his clothes torn, no collar, blood on his shirt, on his hands, on his face, blood everywhere, a wound in his neck, another on his lip, unrecognizable, horrible to look at, but magnificent in energy, heroic and triumphant: such was the appearance presented by old Morestal. He chortled: "Here!" he shouted. An enormous laugh rolled from under his moustache: "Morestal? Here!... Morestal, for the second time, a prisoner of the Teuton ... and, for the second time, free!" Ph

The tragedy enacted that night and morning was so harsh, so virulent and so swift that it left the inmates of the Old Mill as though stunned. Instead of uniting them in a common emotion, it scattered them, giving each of them an impression of discomfort and uneasiness. In Philippe, this took the form of a state of torpor that kept him asleep until the next morning. He awoke, however, in excellent condition, but with an immense longing for solitude. In reality, he shrank from finding himself in t

The German argument was simple enough: the arrest had taken place in Germany. At least, that was what the newspapers stated in the extracts which Philippe and his father read in the Börsweilener Zeitung . Was it not to be expected that this would be the argument eventually adopted—if it was not adopted already—by the imperial government? At Börsweilen—the Zeitung made no mystery about it—people were very positive. After twenty-four hours' silence, the authorities took their stand upon the explan

Whatever might be the eventual outcome of this last effort, it was a respite granted to the two nations. It gave a gleam of hope, it left a loop-hole, a chance of an arrangement. And old Morestal, seized with fresh confidence and already triumphant, rejoiced, as he could not fail to do: "Why, of course," he concluded, "it will all be settled! Didn't I tell you so from the beginning, Philippe? It only wanted a little firmness.... We have spoken clearly; and, at once, under a show of conciliation

The conflict was immediate. Between Morestal and Philippe, the duel set in at once. The events of the previous days had cleared the way for it: at the first word, they stood up to each other like irreconcilable adversaries, the father spirited and aggressive, the son anxious and sad, but inflexible. Le Corbier at once foresaw a scene. He went out of the tent, ordered the sentry to stand away, made sure that the group of Germans could not hear the sound of the raised voices. Then, after carefully

The little sentence, so terrible in its conciseness, set up a clear issue between the two adversaries. Carried away by the exuberance of their convictions, they had widened the discussion into a sort of oratorical joust in which each fought eagerly for the opinions which he held dear. And Le Corbier knew better than to interrupt a duel whence he had little doubt that some unexpected light would flash, at last, from amid the superfluous words. Marthe's little sentence evoked that light. Le Corbie

"Ma'am!" "What is it? What's the matter?" asked Mme. Morestal, waking with a start. "It's I, Catherine." "Well?" "They have sent from the town-hall, ma'am.... They are asking for the master.... They want instructions.... Victor says the troops are being mobilized...." The day before, after his fainting-fit at the Butte-aux-Loups, old Morestal was carried back to the Old Mill on a litter by the soldiers of the detachment. Marthe, who came with him, flung a few words of explanation to her mother-i

Philippe went downstairs as soon as he was dressed. He found all the servants gathered in the hall, discussing the news. Victor confirmed it: he had come straight from Noirmont. Moreover, the postman had heard from a gendarme that the railway-station at the sub-prefecture was occupied by soldiers. He himself, when he left Saint-Élophe, had seen army telegraphists on duty in the post-office. These hasty measures fitted in with the rejection of the ultimatum and went to prove the imminence of the

Marthe, who had kept her room since the day before, but remained attentive to all that was happening at the Old Mill, had, through her open door and window, heard and seen the hubbub, the fuss made by the servants, all the mad fluster of a house that feels itself threatened by an approaching cyclone. She had overcome her fit of anger and hatred, was now mistress of herself and was no longer frightened of a possible meeting between Philippe and Suzanne. Another torment obsessed her. What did her

"Bugler!... Sound the rally ... at the double ... and quietly." It was Captain Daspry who now arrived, with a brisk gait, but with the grave and resolute face of a leader who is commanding at a solemn moment. He said to Philippe: "Is M. Morestal still unwell?" Mme. Morestal ran out from the house: "My husband is asleep.... He is very tired.... The morphia.... But, if there is anything you want, I can take his place. I know his intentions, his preparations." "We shall attempt the impossible," sai