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 been rooted up by last night's storm. … "
"What are you talking about? It has been fairly felled with an axe: you can see the gash from here."
"So I can … so I can. … "
She stood up and shook her head:
"That makes the third time this year. … It will mean more unpleasantness."
"Fiddle-de-dee!" he exclaimed. "All they've got to do is to put up a solid post, instead of their old bit of wood." And he added, in a tone of pride, "The French post, two yards off, doesn't budge, you know!"
"Well, of course not! It's made of cast-iron and cemented into the stone."
"Let them do as much then! It's not money they're wanting … when you think of the five thousand millions they robbed us of! … No, but, I say … three of them in eight months! … How will the people take it, on the other side of the Vosges?"
He could not hide the sort of gay and sarcastic feeling of content that filled his whole being and he walked up and down the terrace, stamping his feet as hard as he could on the ground.
But, suddenly going to his wife, he seized her by the arm and said, in a hollow voice:
"Would you like to know what I really think?"
"Yes."
"Well, all this will lead to trouble."
"No," said the old lady, quietly.
"How do you mean, no?"
"We've been married 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 the drawing-room again, where she began to dust the furniture with a feather-broom.
He shrugged his shoulders, as he followed her indoors:
"Oh, yes, you're the placid mother, of course! Nothing excites you. As long as your cupboards are tidy, your linen all complete and your jams potted, you don't care! … Still, you ought not to forget that they killed your poor father."
"I don't forget it … only, what's the good? It's more than forty years ago. … "
"It was yesterday," he said, sinking his voice, "yesterday, no longer ago than yesterday. … "
"Ah, there's the postman!" she said, hurrying to change the conversation.
She heard a heavy footstep outside the windows opening on the garden. There was a rap at the knocker on the front-door. A minute later, Victor, the man-servant, brought in the letters.
"Oh!" said Mme. Morestal. "A letter from the boy. … Open it, will you? I haven't my spectacles. … I expect it's to say that he will arrive this evening: he was to have left Paris this morning."
"Not at all!" cried M. Morestal, glancing over the letter. "Philippe and his wife have taken their two boys to some friends at Versailles and started with the intention of sleeping last night at the Ballon de Colnard, seeing the sunrise and doing the rest of the journey on foot, with their knapsacks on their backs. They will be here by twelve."
She at once lost her head:
"And the storm! What about last night's storm?"
"My son doesn't care about the storm! It won't be the first that the fellow's been through. It's eleven o'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 old woman that she was, a little too fat, a little tired, but wide-awake still and so methodical, so orderly in her ways that she never made a superfluous movement or one that was not calculated to bring her an immediate advantage.
As for him, he resumed his walk between the terrace and the drawing-room. He strode with long, even steps, holding his body erect, his chest flung out and his hands in the pockets of his jacket, a blue-drill gardening-jacket, with the point of a pruning-shears and the stem of a pipe sticking out of it. He was tall and broad-shouldered; and his fresh-coloured face seemed young still, in spite of the fringe of white beard in which it was framed.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "what a treat to set eyes upon our dear Philippe again! It must be three years since we saw him last. Yes, of course, not since his appointment as professor of history in Paris. By Jove, the chap has made his way in the world! What a time we shall give him during the fortnight that he's with us! Walking … exercise. … He's all for the open-air life, like old Morestal!"
He began to laugh:
"Shall I tell you what would be the thing for him? Six months in camp between this and Berlin!"
"I'm not afraid," she declared. "He's been through the Normal School. The professors keep to their garrisons in time of war."
"What nonsense are you talking now?"
"The school-master told me so."
He gave a start:
"What! Do you mean to say you still speak 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 upon the word: theories! As a district-councillor, as Mayor of Saint-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 Tour d'Auvergne, all those beggars who shed lustre on our country. Nowadays, it's Mossieu Étienne Marcel, Mossieu Dolet. … Oh, a nice set of theories, theirs!"
He barred the way to his wife, as she entered the room again, and roared in her face:
"Do you know why Napoleon lost the battle of Waterloo?"
"I can't find that large breakfast-cup anywhere," said Mme. Morestal, engrossed in her occupation.
"Well, just ask your school-master; he'll give you the latest up-to-date theories about Napoleon."
"I put it down here, on this chest, with my own hand."
"But there, they're doing all they can to distort the children's minds."
"It spoils my set."
"Oh, I swear to you, in the old days, we'd have ducked our school-master in the horse-pond, if he had dared. … But, by Jove, France had a place of her own in the world then! And such a place!
… That was the time of Solferino! … Of Magenta! … We weren't satisfied with chucking down frontier-posts in those days: we crossed the frontiers … and at the double, believe me. … "
He stopped, hesitating, pricking up his ears. Trumpet-blasts sounded in the distance, ringing from valley to valley, echoing and re-echoing against the obstacles formed by the great granite rocks and dying away to right and left, as though stifled by the shadow of the forests.
He whispered, excitedly:
"The French bugle. … "
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, there are troops of Alpines manoeuvring … a company from Noirmont. … Listen … listen. … What gaiety! … What swagger! … I tell you, close to the frontier like this, it takes 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