of going away...."

*
* *

Two hours later, Philippe and his wife settled themselves in two pretty,
adjoining bedrooms on the second floor, looking out on the French side.
Marthe threw herself on her bed and fell asleep almost immediately,
while her husband, with his elbows on the window-sill, sat gazing at the
peaceful valley where the happiest days of his boyhood had been spent.

It was over yonder, in the straggling village of Saint-Elophe-la-Cote,
in the modest dwelling which his parents occupied before they moved to
the Old Mill. He was at the boarding-school at Noirmont and used to have
glorious holidays playing in the village or roaming about the Vosges
with his father: Papa Trompette, as he always called him, because of all
the trumpets, bugles, horns and cornets which, together with drums of
every shape and kind, swords and dirks, helmets and breast-plates, guns
and pistols, were the only presents that his childhood knew. Morestal
was a little strict; a little too fond of everything that had to do with
principle, custom, discipline, exactness; a little quick-tempered; but,
at the same time, he was the kindest of men and had no difficulty in
winning his son's love, his frank and affectionate respect.

Their only quarrel was on the day when Philippe, who was then in the top
form, announced his intention of continuing his studies after he had
passed his examination and of entering the Normal School. The father's
whole dream was shattered, his great dream of seeing Philippe in
uniform, with his sword at his side and the gold braid on the sleeve of
his loose jacket.

It came as a violent and painful shock; and Morestal was stupefied to
find himself faced by an obstinate, deliberate Philippe, a Philippe
wholly master of himself and firmly resolved to lead his life according
to his own views and his own ambitions. For a week on end, the two
argued, hurt each other's feelings, made it up again, only to fall out
once more. Then the father suddenly yielded, in the middle of a
discussion and as though he had all at once realized the futility of his
efforts:

"You have made up your mind?" he cried. "Very well! An usher you shall
be, since that is your ideal; but I warn you that I decline all
responsibility for the future and that I wash my hands of anything that
happens."

What happened was simply that Philippe's career was swift and brilliant
a