LITMIR.BIZ

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in a steeple. That was the village of Alsheim. M. Ulrich hastened on and soon found the course of the stream again, now more rapid than ever, the bank of which he had skirted in the mountain; walked along by it, and saw stand out, high and massive, in its park of trees despoiled by winter, the first house of Alsheim – the house of the Oberlés.

      It was built on the right of the road, from which it was separated, first by a white wall, then by a brook which ran through the domain more than two hundred yards farther, providing the water necessary for the engines, and then flowing, enlarged and cunningly directed, among the trees, to its outlet. M. Ulrich went through the large gate of wrought iron which opened on to the road, and passing by the lodge-keeper's cottage, leaving to the right the timber-yard full of piled-up wood, of cris-crossed planks, of poles, and of sheds, he took the left avenue, which wound between clumps of trees and the lawn, and reached the flight of steps before a two-storied house, with dormer windows, built of the red stone of Saverne and dating from the middle of the century. It was half-past eight. He went eagerly up to the first floor and knocked at the door of a room.

      A young voice answered:

      "Come in!"

      M. Ulrich had not time to take off his shooting-cap. He was seized round the neck, drawn forward, and embraced by his nephew, Jean Oberlé, who said:

      "Good evening, Uncle Ulrich! Ah! How glad I am! What a good idea!"

      "Come, let go of me! Good evening, my Jean! You have just arrived?"

      "I got here at three o'clock this afternoon. I should have come to see you to-morrow, you know!"

      "I was certain of it! But I could not wait so long. I simply had to come down and see you. It is three years since I saw you, Jean! Let me look at you!"

      "At your leisure," said the young man, laughing. "Have I changed?"

      He had just pushed a leathern arm-chair up to his uncle, and sat down facing him, on a sofa covered with a rug and placed against the wall.

      Between them there was a table, on which burned a little oil lamp of chased metal. Near by through the window, whose curtains were drawn aside, the park could be seen all motionless and solitary in the moonlight. M. Ulrich scrutinised Jean with a curiosity at once affectionate and proud. He had grown – he was a little taller than his uncle. His solid Alsatian face had taken on a quiet firmness and more pleasing lines. His brown moustache was thicker, his easy gestures were now those of a man who has seen the world. He might have been mistaken for a Southerner because of the Italian paleness of his shaven cheeks, of his eyes encircled with shadow, because of his dark hair which he wore parted at the side, and because of his pale lips opening over fine healthy teeth, which he showed when he spoke or smiled. But several signs marked him a Child of Alsace. The width of his face across the cheek-bones, his eyes green as the forests of the Vosges, and the square chin of the peasants of the valley.

      He had inherited some of their characteristics, for his great grandfather had guided the plough. He had their sturdy horseman's body. The uncle also guessed, by the youthfulness of the glance which met his, that Jean Oberlé, the man of twenty-four, whom he was now looking at once more, was not very different morally from him whom he had known formerly.

      "No," he said, after a long pause, "you are the same! – only you are a man – I was afraid of greater changes."

      "And why?"

      "Because, my boy, at your age especially there are certain journeys which are crucial tests. But first, where do you come from, exactly?"

      "From Berlin, where I passed my Referendar examination."

      The uncle laughed a jerky laugh, which he repressed quickly, and which was lost in his grey beard.

      "Let us call that the Licence en droit examination – if you kindly will."

      "Most willingly, uncle."

      "Then give me a fuller explanation and one more up-to-date, for you must have had your diploma in your pocket more than a year. What have you done with your time?"

      "It's very simple. The year before last I passed my examination, as you know, in Berlin, so finishing my law studies. Last year I worked with a lawyer till August. Then I travelled through Bohemia, Hungary, Croatia, and the Caucasus – with father's permission. I took six months over it. I returned to Berlin to get my student's luggage and to pay some farewell visits – and here I am."

      "Well, and your father? In my haste to see you again I have not asked after him. Is he well?"

      "He is not here."

      "What! Was he obliged to be absent on the very evening of your return?"

      Jean answered with a little bitterness:

      "He was obliged to be present at a great dinner at the Councillor von Boscher's. He has taken my sister. It is a very grand reception, it seems."

      There was a short silence. The two men smiled no longer. They felt between them – quite near – the supreme question, imposing itself upon them after a three minutes' conversation, that exasperating and fatal question which cannot be avoided, which unites and divides, which lurks beneath all social intercourse, honours, mortifications, and institutions, the question which has kept Europe under arms for thirty years.

      "I dined alone," said Jean, "that is to say, with my grandfather."

      "Not much of a companion, poor man. Is he not always so depressed, and so very infirm?"

      "But his mind is very much alive, I assure you!"

      There was a second silence, after which M. Ulrich asked, hesitatingly:

      "And my sister? Your mother? Is she with them?"

      The young man nodded an affirmative.

      The elder man's grief was so intense that he turned away his eyes so that Jean might not see all the suffering they expressed. He raised them by chance to a water-colour by that master of decorative art, Spindler, hanging on the wall, and which represented three beautiful Alsatian girls amusing themselves swinging. Quickly he looked his nephew straight in the face, and, his voice broken with emotion, said:

      "And you? You, too, could have dined with the Councillor von Boscher, considering how intimate you are with these Germans. Did you not wish to follow your parents?"

      "No."

      The word was said decidedly, simply. But M. Ulrich had not got the information he sought. Yes, Jean Oberlé had certainly become a man. He refused to blame his family, to voice any opinion which would be an accusation of the others. His uncle continued with the same ironical accent:

      "Nevertheless, my nephew, all the winter through your Berlin successes were dinned into my ears. They did not spare me. I knew you were dancing with our fair enemies. I knew their names."

      "Oh, I beg you," said Jean seriously, "do not let us joke about these questions – like people who dare not face them and give their opinion. I have had a different education from yours, it is true, uncle – a German education. But that does not diminish my love for this country; on the contrary…"

      M. Ulrich stretched his hand across the table and pressed that of Jean.

      "So much the better," he said.

      "Did you doubt it?"

      "I did not doubt it, my child – I did not know. I see so many things that pain me – and so many convictions surrendered."

      "The proof that I love our Alsace is shown by my intention to live in Alsheim."

      "What!" said M. Ulrich, stupefied. "You give up the idea of entering the German Administration – as your father desires you should do? It is grave – a serious thing, my friend, to rob him of his ambition. You were the subject of the future. Does he know?"

      "He suspects; but we have not yet had any explanations on the matter. I have not had time since my return."

      "And what will you do?"

      The youthful smile reappeared on the lips of Jean Oberlé.

      "I shall cut wood, as he does, as my grandfather Phillipe does; I shall settle among you here. When I travelled in

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