LITMIR.BIZ

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was chiefly that I might study the forests, the saw-mills, and the factories like our own. You are weeping?"

      "Not quite."

      M. Ulrich was not weeping, but he was obliged to dry his wet eyelids with the tip of his finger.

      "It would be for joy, in any case, my dear boy. Oh, for a true and great joy. To see you faithful to what I love best in the world. To keep you with us – to see you determined not to accept appointments and honours from those who have violated your country… Yes, it was the dream I dared no longer dream… Only, quite frankly, I cannot understand it. I am surprised. Why are you not like your father, or like Lucienne, who have so openly rallied to the enemy? You studied law in Munich, in Bonn, in Heidelberg, in Berlin; you have just passed four years in Germany, without speaking of your college years. How did you avoid becoming German?"

      "I am less so than you."

      "That is hardly possible."

      "Less than you, because I know them better. I have judged them by comparison. Well, they are our inferiors."

      "Well, I am pleased. We hear nothing but the opposite of this. In France, above all, the praise of the conquerors of 1870 continues without intermission."

      The young man, touched by M. Ulrich's emotion, leaned no longer on the sofa, but bending forwards, his face lit up by the lamp, which made his green eyes appear more brilliant, said:

      "Do not mistake me, Uncle Ulrich. I do not hate the Germans, and in that I differ from you. I even admire them, for in some things they are admirable. Among them I have friends I esteem greatly. I shall have others. I belong to a generation which has not seen what you have seen, and which has lived differently – I have not been conquered!"

      "Happily, not!"

      "Only the more I know them, the more I feel myself different from them; I feel I am of another race, with another category of ideals into which they do not enter, which I find superior, and which, without knowing why, I call 'France.'"

      "Bravo, Jean, bravo!"

      The old dragoon officer bent forward – he also was quite pale – and the two men were only separated by the width of the table.

      "What I call France, uncle, what I have in my heart, like a dream, is a country where there is a greater facility for thought."

      "Yes – "

      "For speech – "

      "That's it!"

      "For laughter."

      "How right you are!"

      "Where souls have infinite shades of colour! A country that has the charm of a woman one loves, as it were a still more beautiful Alsace."

      Both had risen, and M. Ulrich drew his nephew towards him, and pressed that fervent head against his breast.

      "Frenchman!" said he, "Frenchman to the marrow of your bones, and in every drop of blood in your veins! My poor boy!"

      The young man continued, his head still resting on the older man's shoulder:

      "That is why I cannot live over yonder – across the Rhine – and why I shall live here!"

      "Well might I say 'poor boy'!" answered M. Ulrich. "All is changed – alas! Even here in your home. You will suffer, Jean, with a nature like yours. I understand everything now – everything."

      Then letting his nephew go:

      "How glad I am I came to-night. Sit down there quite close to me. We have so much to say to each other – Jean, my Jean!"

      They sat down side by side, happy, on the sofa. M. Ulrich stroked his pointed beard into its habitual well-groomed neatness. He recovered from his emotion, and said:

      "Do you know that by speaking of France as we have spoken this evening, we have committed misdemeanours such as I delight in? It is not allowed. If we had been out of doors and Hamm had heard us, we should have been speedily dealt with – there would have been an official report!"

      "I met him this afternoon."

      "And I saw the son pass by in the depths of the wood just now. He is a non-commissioned officer in the Rhenish Hussars – the regiment which will soon be yours. Is that the carriage I hear?"

      "No."

      "Listen, then!"

      They listened, gazing out of the window at the park, which was lit up by the full high moon; at the lawn in the shape of a lyre with its two white avenues, at the clumps of trees, and farther on the tile roofs of the saw-mill. Not a sound could be heard save the fall of the brook at the factory sluice, a monotonous sound which seemed now near, now far, according to the direction and strength of the freshening wind which was now blowing from the north-east, "from the Cathedral platform," as Uncle Ulrich said, thinking of Strasburg.

      "No; what you hear," said Jean Oberlé, after listening for a while, "is the noise of the sluice. Father told the coachman to go to Molsheim to wait for the eleven-thirty train. We have time to chat."

      They had time, and they made good use of it. They began to speak softly, without haste or difficulty, like those who have recognised that they agree on essentials and who can now safely open up all other questions, even the smallest. They spoke of the year's voluntary service Jean had been allowed to postpone until he was twenty-four, and of that new life he was going to begin at Strasburg – of the ease with which he could come nearly every Sunday to Alsheim. Then, this dear name having been repeated, uncle and nephew took pleasure in their recollections of the country, first of Alsheim, then of Sainte Odile, of the forest-dwelling of Heidenbruch, of Obernai, of Saverne, where the uncle had forests, of Guebwiller, where he had relations. It was Alsace they evoked. They thoroughly understood one another. They smoked, their legs crossed, seated one in each corner of the sofa, letting their words flow freely, and laughing often. Their conversation was so prolonged that the Black Forest cuckoo clock hanging over the door struck midnight.

      "Do you suppose we have disturbed your grandfather?" asked M. Ulrich, getting up, and pointing with his hand to the wall which separated the young man's room from that of the sick man.

      "No," said Jean; "he hardly sleeps at all now – I am sure it has pleased him to hear me laugh. As my family left me at five o'clock I spent a good deal of my time with him, and I watched him closely. He hears and understands everything. He recognised your voice, I am sure, and perhaps he has caught a word here and there."

      "That will have pleased him, my boy. He belongs to the very old Alsace, that country which seems almost fabulous to you, and to which I also belong, although I am much younger than M. Oberlé. It was wholly French, that Alsace, and not a man of that time has changed. Look at your grandfather – look at old Bastian. We are the generation who suffered. We represent grief – we others. Your father embodies resignation."

      "And I?"

      Uncle Ulrich looked at the young man, with his far-seeing eyes, and said:

      "You – oh, you are Romance."

      They would have smiled, both of them, but they could not, as if that word had been too perfectly accurate, which is not always the case with human judgments – as if they felt that Fate was there in this room, invisible, who repeated to them at the bottom of their hearts at the same time: "Yes, it is true – "this one is Romance." The grief which was oppressing them was only to be explained by the imminence of life's mystery. It faded away. M. Ulrich reached out his hand to his nephew, more gravely than he would have done if that word had not escaped him, which he did not regret, but which remained present with him.

      "Good-bye, dear Jean. I would rather not wait for my brother-in-law. I do not know what attitude I should take up towards him. All you have told me would embarrass me. You will wish him good night for me. I will go home through the woods by moonlight. What a pity I have not my gun with me and the good luck to come across a brace of grouse in the fir wood."

      To reach the staircase he took some careful steps on the carpet in the passage.

      "Uncle," said Jean, in a low tone, "if you would go to my grandfather I am sure he would be pleased – I am sure he is not sleeping."

      Uncle

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