out above the others, with lighter
foliage?"

"Yes."

"And, to the right of that tree, a little lower down, an empty space
surrounded by fir-trees?"

"Yes."

"That's the circus of the Butte-aux-Loups and it marks the frontier at
that spot."

"Ah, I've got it!... There it is!... You mean on the ground, don't you?
Lying flat on the grass, exactly as if it had been rooted up by last
night's storm...."

"What are you talking about? It has been fairly felled with an axe: you
can see the gash from here."

"So I can ... so I can...."

She stood up and shook her head:

"That makes the third time this year.... It will mean more
unpleasantness."

"Fiddle-de-dee!" he exclaimed. "All they've got to do is to put up a
solid post, instead of their old bit of wood." And he added, in a tone
of pride, "The French post, two yards off, doesn't budge, you know!"

"Well, of course not! It's made of cast-iron and cemented into the
stone."

"Let them do as much then! It's not money they're wanting ... when you
think of the five thousand millions they robbed us of!... No, but, I say
... three of them in eight months!... How will the people take it, on
the other side of the Vosges?"

He could not hide the sort of gay and sarcastic feeling of content that
filled his whole being and he walked up and down the terrace, stamping
his feet as hard as he could on the ground.

But, suddenly going to his wife, he seized her by the arm and said, in
a hollow voice:

"Would you like to know what I really think?"

"Yes."

"Well, all this will lead to trouble."

"No," said the old lady, quietly.

"How do you mean, no?"

"We've been married five-and-thirty years; and, for five-and-thirty
years, you've told me, week after week, that we shall have trouble. So,
you see...."

She turned away from him and went back to the drawing-room again, where
she began to dust the furniture with a feather-broom.

He shrugged his shoulders, as he followed her indoors:

"Oh, yes, you're the placid mother, of course! Nothing excites you. As
long as your cupboards are tidy, your linen all complete and your jams
potted, you don't care!... Still, you ought not to forget that they
killed your poor father."

"I don't forget it ... only, what's the good? It's more than forty years
ago...."

"It was yesterday," he said, sinking his voice, "yesterday, no longer
ago than yesterday...."

"Ah, there's the postman!" she said, hurrying to change the
conv