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 drawing-room, therefore, walked straight across it and reached the windows on the other side. A little further, at the foot of the steps, he saw a carriage ready to start, with Suzanne and her father sitting in it. The Morestal family were standing round the carriage.

"That's all right," said Morestal. "Philippe and I will walk ... and we'll do the same coming home, won't we, my boy?"

"And you, Marthe?" asked JorancÉ.

"No, thank you. I will stay with mamma."

"Well, we'll send your men home to you soon ... especially as Morestal likes going to bed early. They will leave the house at ten o'clock precisely; and I will go a bit of the way with them, as far as the Butte."

"That's it," said Morestal. "We shall see the demolished post by moonlight. And we shall be here by half-past ten, mother. That's a promise. Off you go, Victor."

The carriage drove off. Dourlowski, in the drawing-room, took out his watch and set it by the clock, whispering:

"Consequently, they'll reach the Butte at a quarter past ten. That's a good thing to know. And now to inform old Morestal that his friend Dourlowski has come to hunt him up in his happy home."

Putting two of his fingers to his mouth, he gave the same faint whistle which Morestal had heard that morning, something like the unfinished note of certain birds:

"That's done it," he grinned. "The old boy pricked up his ears. He has sent the others for a stroll in the garden and he's coming this way...."

He made a movement backwards on hearing Morestal's footstep in the hall, for he knew the old fellow was not given to joking. And, in fact, Morestal, the moment he entered, ran up to him and took him by the collar of his jacket:

"What are you doing here? What do you mean by it? How dare you?... I'll show you a road which you don't know of!"

Dourlowski began to laugh with his crooked mouth:

"My dear M. Morestal, you'll dirty your hands."

His clothes were shiny and thick with grease, stretched over a small round body, that contrasted strangely with his lean and bony face. And all this formed a jovial, grotesque and rather alarming picture.

Morestal let go his hold and, in an imperative tone:

"Explain yourself and quickly. I don't want my son to see you here. Speak."

There was no time to be lost, as Dourlowski saw:

"Well, look here," he said. "It's a question of a young soldier in the BÖrsweilen garrison. He's too unhappy for words where he is ... and he's mad at having to serve Germany."

"A ne'er-do-well," growled Morestal. "A slacker who doesn't want to work."

"No, not this one, I tell you, not this one. He means to enlist in the Foreign Legion. He loves France."

"Yes, always the same story. And then—pah!—one never hears of them again. More gallows' seed!"

Dourlowski seemed shocked and scandalized:

"How can you say such a thing, M. Morestal?... If you only knew! A brave soldier who asks nothing better than to die fighting for our country."

The old man started:

"'Our country,' indeed! I forbid you to speak like that. Have you the least idea where you hail from? A scamp like you has no country."

"You forget all that I have done, M. Morestal.... You and I, between us, have 'passed' four of them already."

"Hold your tongue!" said Morestal, who seemed to take no pleasure in this recollection. "Hold your tongue.... If the thing had never happened ..."

"It would happen just the same, because you are a good-natured man and because there are things.... There.... It's like with this lad.... It would break your heart to see him.... Johann Baufeld his name is.... His father is just dead ... and he wants to go out to his mother, who was divorced and who lives in Algeria.... Such a nice lad, full of pluck...."

"Well," said Morestal, "he's only got to 'pass'! You don't want me for that."

"And what about the money? He hasn't a sou. Besides, there's no one like you to tell us all the paths, the best place to cross at, the best time to select...."

"I'll see about it.... I'll see about it," said Morestal. "There's no hurry...."

"Yes, there is...."

"Why?"

"The BÖrsweilen regiment is manoeuvring on the slopes of the Vosges. If you'll lend us a hand, I'll run down to Saint-Élophe first, buy a suit of second-hand French peasant's clothes and go and find my man. Then I'll bring him to the old barn in your little farm to-night ... as I have done before...."

"Where is he at this moment?"

"His company is quartered in the Albern Woods."

"But that's next door to the frontier!" cried Morestal. "An hour's walk, no more."

"Just so; but how he is to reach the frontier? Where is he to cross it?"

"That's quite easy," said Morestal, taking up a pencil and a sheet of note-paper. "Look, here are the Albern Woods. Here's the Col du Diable. Here's the Butte-aux-Loups.... Well, he's only got to leave the woods by the Fontaine-Froide and take the first path to the left, by the Roche de ..."

He suddenly interrupted himself, looked at Dourlowski with a suspicious air and said:

"But you know the road as well as I do ... there's no doubt about that.... So ..."

"My word," said Dourlowski, "I always go by the Col du Diable and the factory."

Morestal reflected for a moment, scribbled a few lines and a few words in an absent-minded sort of way and then, with a movement of quick resolution, took the sheet of note-paper, crumpled it into a ball and flung it into the waste-paper basket:

"No, no, certainly not!" he cried. "I've had enough of this nonsense! One succeeds four times; and, at the fifth attempt.... Besides, it's not a business I care about.... A soldier's a soldier ... whatever uniform he wears...."

"Still ..." mumbled Dourlowski.

"I refuse. Not to mention that they suspect me over yonder. The German commissary gives me a queer look when he meets me; and I won't risk ..."

"You're risking nothing."

"That'll do; and clear out of this as fast as you can.... Oh, wait a second!... I think I ... Listen ..."

Morestal ran to the windows overlooking the garden. Quick as thought, Dourlowski stooped and fished Morestal's crumpled sheet out of the waste-paper basket. He hid it in the palm of his hand and, raising his voice:

"We'll say no more about it, as you don't see your way to help me," he said. "I give it up."

"That's it," said Morestal, who had seen no one in the garden. "You give it up, my friend: it's the best thing you can do."

He took Dourlowski by the shoulders and pushed him towards the terrace:

"Be off ... and don't come back.... There's nothing more for you to do here ... absolutely nothing...."

He hoped to get rid of the fellow without being perceived, but, as he reached the gate, he saw his wife, his son and Marthe come up the staircase, after strolling round the walls of the Old Mill.

Dourlowski took off his hat and distributed bows all round. Then, as soon as the road was clear, he disappeared.

Mme. Morestal expressed her astonishment:

"What! Do you still see that rogue of a Dourlowski?"

"Oh, it was an accident!..."

"You are very wrong to have him in the house. We don't even know where he comes from or what his trade is."

"He's a hawker."

"A spy, rather: that's what they say about him."

"Tah! In the pay of which country?"

"Of both, very likely. Victor thinks he saw him with the German commissary, two Sundays ago."

"With Weisslicht? Impossible. He doesn't even know him."

"I'm telling you what they say. In any case, Morestal, be careful with that fellow. He's a bird of ill-omen."

"Come, come, mother, no hard words. This is a day of rejoicing.... Are you ready, Philippe?"