Maurice Leblanc - The Frontier

"How do you mean, Philippe?" she asked.

He took a sealed letter from his pocket and showed her the address:

" To the Minister of Public Instruction. "

"What is in that letter?" asked Marthe.

"My resignation."

"Your resignation! The resignation of your professorship?"

"Yes. I shall send this letter the moment I have confessed everything to my father. I did not like to tell you before, for fear of your objections… But I was wrong… It is necessary that you should know…"

"I don't understand," she stammered. "I don't understand…"

"Yes, you do, Marthe: you understand. The ideas which have taken possession of me little by little and to which I want to devote myself without reserve are dangerous for young brains to listen to. They form the belief of an age for which I call with might and main, but it is not the belief of to-day; and I have no right to teach it to the children entrusted to my care."

She was on the verge – thinking of her own children, whose well-being and whose future were about to suffer through this decision – she was on the verge of exclaiming:

"Why need you shout it from the house-tops? Stifle your vain scruples and go on teaching what you find in the manuals and school-books."

But she knew that he was like those priests who prefer to incur poverty and opprobrium rather than preach a religion which they no longer believe.

And she simply said:

"I do not share all your opinions, Philippe. There are even some that terrify me … especially those which I do not know, but which I half suspect. But, whatever the goal to which you are leading us, I will walk to it with my eyes closed."

"And … so far … you approve?"

"Entirely. You must act according to your conscience, send that letter and, first of all, tell your father everything. Who knows? Perhaps he will admit …"

"Never!" exclaimed Philippe. "Men who look into the future can still understand the beliefs of former days, because those were their own beliefs when they were young. But men who cling to the past cannot accept ideas which they do not understand and which clash with their feelings and with their instincts."

"So …?"

"So we shall quarrel and cause each other pain; and the thought of it distresses me infinitely."

He sat down, with a movement of weariness. She leant over him:

"Do not lose courage. I am sure that things will turn out better than you think. Wait a few days… There is no hurry; and you will have time to see … to prepare…"

"Everything turns out well when you speak," he said, smiling and allowing himself to be caressed.

"Unfortunately …"

He did not finish his sentence. He saw Suzanne opposite him, glaring at the pair of them. She was ghastly pale; and her mouth was wrung with a terrible expression of pain and hatred. He felt that she was ready to fling herself upon them and proclaim her rage aloud.

He released himself quickly and, making an effort to jest:

"Tush!" he said. "Time will show… Enough of these jeremiads: what say you, Suzanne?.. Suppose you saw to putting away my things?.. Is everything done?"

Marthe was surprised at the abrupt change in his manner. However, she replied:

"There are only your papers; and I always prefer you to arrange them yourself."

"Come on, then," he said, gaily.

Marthe walked through the dressing-room to her husband's bedroom. Philippe was about to follow her and his foot touched the door-sill when Suzanne darted in front of him and barred the way with her outstretched arms.

It happened so suddenly that he uttered a slight exclamation. Marthe asked, from the further room:

"What is it?"

"Nothing," said Suzanne. "We're coming."

Philippe tried to pass. She pushed him back violently and with such a look of her eyes that he yielded at once.

They watched each other for a few seconds, like two enemies. Philippe fumed:

"Well? What does all this mean? Do you propose to keep me here indefinitely?.."

She came nearer to him and, in a voice that shook with restraint and implacable energy:

"I shall expect you this evening… It's quite easy… You can get out… I shall be outside my door at eleven."

He was petrified:

"You are mad!.."

"No… But I want to see you … to speak to you … I must … I am suffering more than I can bear… It's enough to kill me."

Her eyes were full of tears, her chin seemed convulsed with spasms, her lips trembled.

Philippe's anger was mingled with a little pity; and, above all, he felt the need of putting an end to the scene as quickly as possible:

"Look here, baby, look here!" he said, employing an expression which he often used to her.

"You will come … you must come … that is why I stayed… One hour, one hour of your presence!.. If you don't, I shall come here, I shall indeed… I don't care what happens!"

He had retreated to the window. Instinctively, he looked to see if it was possible to climb over the balcony and jump. It would have been absurd.

But, as he bent forward, he saw his wife, two windows further, lean out and catch sight of him. He had to smile, to conceal his perturbation; and nothing could be more hateful to him than this comedy which a child's whims were compelling him to play.

"You're quite pale," said Marthe.

"Do you think so? I'm a little tired, I suppose. You too, you are looking …"

She broke in:

"I thought I saw your father."

"Is he back?"

"Yes, there he is, at the end of the garden, with M. Jorancé. They are making signs to you."

Morestal and his friend were climbing up beside the waterfall and waving their hands to attract Philippe's attention. When he came under the windows, Morestal cried:

"This is what we have arranged, Philippe. You and I are dining at Jorancé's."

"But …"

"There's no but about it; we'll explain why. I'll have the carriage got ready and Jorancé will go ahead with Suzanne."

"What about Marthe?" asked Philippe.

"Marthe can come if she likes. Come down here. We'll fix it all up."

When Philippe turned round, Suzanne was standing close against him:

"You'll come, won't you?" she said, eagerly.

"Yes, if Marthe does."

"Even if Marthe doesn't … I insist … I insist… Oh, Philippe, I implore you, don't drive me to extremities!"

He was afraid of an outburst:

"As a matter of fact," he said, "why shouldn't I come? It's quite natural that I should dine at your house with my father."

"Do you mean it?" she murmured. "Will you really come?"

She seemed suddenly calmed; and her face assumed a look of childish delight:

"Oh, how happy I am!.. How happy I am! My beautiful dream will be fulfilled… We shall walk together in the dark, without speaking a word… And I shall never forget that hour… Nor you either, Philippe … nor you either…"

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?"