The Frontier by Maurice LeBlanc

There were several ways leading to Saint-Elophe. 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 manoeuvring company. We talked about the Saboureux business and, this evening, he is going to introduce us to his captain, who happens to be a nephew of General Daspry, commanding the army-corps. So I shall tell him what I have done at the Old Mill, you see; he will report it to his uncle Daspry; and Fort Morestal will be listed at once."

He beamed with delight, held his head high and flung out his chest, while, with his free hand, he made warlike flourishes with his cane. Once he even halted and placed himself on guard and stamped his foot on the ground:

"Three appels. Engage. Lunge! What do you say to that, Philippe, eh? Old Morestal is game yet!"

Philippe, full of affection for the old man, smiled. Now that he was acting on Marthe's advice and delaying the painful explanation, life seemed better to him, quite simple and quite easy, and he surrendered himself to the pleasure of seeing his father again and the scenes which he loved and renewing the childhood memories that seemed to await him at every turn of the road and to rise up at his approach:

"Do you remember, father? This is where I fell off my bicycle. I was standing under that tree when it was struck by lightning."

They stopped, recalled all the circumstances of the event and set off again, arm in arm.

And, a little further, Morestal took up the thread:

"And over there, do you remember? That's where you killed your first rabbit. with a catapult! Ah, even in those days you promised to be a good shot. the best at Saint-Elophe, as I live! . But I was forgetting: you have given up your gun! A fellow of your build! Why, sport, my boy, is the great apprenticeship for war! ."

Saint-Elophe-la-Cote, once a flourishing little town, had never quite recovered from the wounds earned by its heroism during the war. It stood crowding round an old ruined castle which became visible at the last turn in the road. Nevertheless, situated on the borders of the department, at twelve or thirteen miles from Noirmont, the sub-prefecture, it owed a certain importance to its position near the frontier, facing the German garrisons, whose increasing activity was becoming a subject of uneasiness and had led to Jorance's appointment as special commissary.

Jorance, the first holder of this newly-created office, lived at the other end of the village and a little way outside it, in a low-storeyed house which had been greatly improved by Suzanne's good taste and fancy. It was surrounded by a garden with arbours and quaintly-clipped old trees and a clear, winding stream that flowed under the very doorstep.

It was nearly dark when Morestal entered, accompanied by Philippe. Everything was ready for their reception: the table was laid in a room hung with bright stuffs; flowers were scattered over the cloth; two lamps shed a calm and even light; and Suzanne sat smiling, happy and charming.

All this was very simple. And yet Philippe received the impression that special pains had been taken on his account. It was he who was expected; he was the master who was to be conquered and chained with invisible bonds. He felt sure of this; and Suzanne told him as much throughout dinner, with her fond glances, her attentive movements, her whole person bending towards him.

"I ought not to have come," he thought. "No, I ought not to have."

And, each time that he met Suzanne's eyes, he called to mind his wife's discreet manner and her thoughtful air.

"How absorbed you are, Philippe! " cried Morestal, who had never ceased talking while eating. "And you, Suzanne, what are you thinking about? Your future husband?"

"Not I! " she replied, without the least embarrassment. "I was thinking of those months I spent in Paris last winter. How good you were to me, Philippe! I remember the walks we used to take! ."

They spoke of those walks; and, little by little, Philippe was surprised to realize the extent to which their lives had been mingled during that stay. Marthe, retained by her household duties, used to remain at home, while they two escaped, like a couple of free and careless play-fellows. They visited the museums and churches of Paris, the little towns and castles of the Ile-de-France. An intimacy sprang up between them. And now it confused him to find Suzanne at once so near to him and so far, so near as a friend, so far as a woman.