"He did not wish to turn you out of the room?"

"No."

"Then?"

"He was ordering me to leave the house."

"Jean!"

"And for all that, the poor man was delighted to see me come back to it."

Jean would not look at his mother now, because tears had gushed from Madame Oberle's eyes, because she had come close to him, because she had taken his hands.

"No, Jean, no; he could not have meant that, I a.s.sure you; you do not understand. In any case, you will not do it! Say that you will never do it."

She waited for the answer, which did not come.

"Jean, for pity's sake answer me! Promise me that you will not leave us! Oh! what would the house be without my son now? I have only you--you do not think I am miserable enough then? Jean, look at me!"

He could not wholly resist her. She saw the eyes of her son looking at her tenderly.

"I love you with all my heart," said Jean.

"I know it; but do not go away!"

"I pity you and respect you."

"Do not go away!"

And as he said no more she moved away.

"You will promise nothing. You are hard--you also are like----"

She was going to say "Like your father."

Jean thought: "I can give her some weeks of peace; I owe them to her." And trying to smile in his turn said:

"I promise you, mamma, to be at St. Nicholas's Barracks on October 1st--I promise you. Are you pleased?"

She shook her head. But he, kissing her on the brow, not wishing to say anything more, left her in haste.

The town of Alsheim was occupying itself with the scene which had taken place at M. Oberle's. Through the torrid evening heat, amidst the fertile dust of the cut wheat, of the pollen of flowers, of dried moss which was blown from one field to another, the men came home on foot; the children and young people came on horseback, and the tails of the horses were gold, or silver, or black, or fire-coloured in the burning light which the setting sun cast over the shoulder of the Vosges. Women were waiting for their husbands on the thresholds, and when they drew near, went to meet them in their haste to spread such important news.

"You do not know what has happened at the works. They will speak about it for a long time! It seems that old M. Philippe found his voice in his anger, and that he drove the Prussian out!"

Many of the peasants said:

"You will speak of that at home, wife, when the door is shut!"

Many remarked with anxiety the agitation of their neighbours, and said:

"This will end in a visit from the gendarmes!"

At M. Bastian's farm the women and young girls were finishing their hop-picking. They were chattering, still laughing, or anxious, according to their age. The farmer had forbidden them to reopen the door looking on to the village street. He went on, always prudent in spite of his seeming joviality, to spread out the baskets of hop flowers, shining with fresh pollen. The oxen and the horses, pa.s.sing near the yard, breathed in the air and stretched their necks.

And one at a time the women got up, shook their ap.r.o.ns, and weary, stretched their youthful arms, yawning at the freshness of the cool puffs of air which came over the roof, then started on their more or less distant way to home and supper.

At the Oberles' house the dinner-bell rang. The meal was the shortest and the least gay that the wainscoting and delicately tinted paintings had ever witnessed.

Very few words were exchanged.

Lucienne was thinking of the new difficulty in the way of her projected marriage and of the violent irritation of M. von Ka.s.sewitz; Jean, of the h.e.l.l that this house of the family had become; M. Oberle, of his ambitions probably ruined; Madame Monica, of the possible departure of her son. Towards the end of dinner, at the moment when the servant was about to withdraw, M. Oberle began to say, as if he were continuing a conversation:

"I am not accustomed, you know, my dear, to give in to violence: it exasperates me, that is all. I am then resolved to do two things--first to build another house in the timber-yard, where I shall be in my own home, then to hasten on Lucienne's marriage with Lieutenant von Farnow. Neither you nor my father nor any one can stop me. And I have just written to him about it."

M. Oberle looked at each of them--his wife, son, and daughter--with the same expression of defiance. He added:

"These young people must be allowed to see each other and to talk to each other freely, betrothed as they are."

"Oh," said Madame Oberle, "such things----"

"They are so!" he answered, "by my will, and dating from this evening. Nothing will alter it, nothing. I cannot let them meet here, unfortunately. My father would plan some fresh scandal--or you," and he pointed to his son; "or you," and he pointed to his wife.

"You are mistaken," said Madame Oberle. "I suffer cruelly on account of this arrangement, but I shall make no scandal which will nullify what you have decided upon."

"Then," said M. Oberle, "you have the chance to prove your words. I was not going to ask you to do anything, and I had decided to take Lucienne to Strasburg to the house of a third person, who would have let them meet in her drawing-room."

"I have never deserved that."

"Will you then agree to accompany your daughter?"

She thought for a moment, shut her eyes, and said:

"Certainly."

There was a look of surprise in her husband's eyes, and in Jean's, and also in Lucienne's.

"I shall be delighted; for my arrangement did not quite suit my fancy. It is more natural that you should take your daughter. But what rendezvous do you intend to choose?"

Madame Monica answered:

"My house at Obernai."

A movement of stupefaction made the father and son both straighten themselves. The house at Obernai? The home of the Biehlers? The son at least understood the sacrifice which the mother was making, and he rose and kissed her tenderly.

M. Oberle himself said: