"He knew that he could not paint an inscription in French on a shop any more. M. Haas would never--I know it--have painted a stroke of a brush in contravention of the law. But he thought he could at least put a coat of varnish on the sign he was painting, where he had painted a long time ago the word '_Chemiserie_.' They made him appear and threatened to take proceedings against him, because he was preserving the inscription with his varnish. Why, that was last October!" "Oh, oh, would not M. Hamm be pleased if the rain, the wind, and the thunder threw down the sign of the inn here, which is called: 'Le Pigeon blanc' as happened to 'La Cigogne.'" It was old Josephine the bilberry-picker who said to the farmer's wife, who at this moment appeared on the threshold of her house: "Sad Alsace! How gay she was when we were young! Wasn't she, Madame Ramspacher?" "Yes. Now--for nothing--evictions, lawsuits, and prison! The police everywhere." "You had better keep silence!" said Ramspacher in a reproachful tone. The younger son Francis took his mother's side. "There are no traitors here. And then, how can one keep silence? They are too hard. That is why so many young men emigrate!" From his corner in the shadow, Jean looked at these young girls who were listening--with flashing eyes, some motionless and erect, others continuing to bend and rise over their work of stripping the hop-plants. "Work then--instead of so much chattering!" said the master's voice. "One hundred and seventy unsubdued, and condemned by the tribunal at Saverne, in a single day, last January," said Juliette with a laugh that shook her hair. "One hundred and seventy!" Francis, the great careless boy, who was close by Jean Oberlé at this moment, turned a basketful of hops on the shelf, and bending towards him said: "It is at Grand Fontaine that one can easily get over the frontier," he said in low tones. "The best crossing, Monsieur Oberlé, is between Grande Fontaine and Les Minières. The frontier is opposite, like a spur. That is the nearest part, but one has to take care of the Forest Guard and the Custom officials. Often they stop people to ask where they are going." Jean trembled. What did that mean? He began: "Why do you speak to...?" But the young peasant had turned away, and was going on with his work. Doubtless he had spoken for himself. He had trusted his plan to his melancholy and silent countryman, whom he would amuse, astonish, or sympathise with. But Jean had been touched by this confidence. A clear voice called out: "There is the carriage coming into the town. It is going to pass M. Bastian's avenue!" All the hop-pickers raised their heads. Little Franzele was standing up near the pillar which kept the door open--leaning the top of her body over the wall, her curly hair blown by the wind. She was looking to the right, whence came the sound of wheels. In the yard the women had stopped working. She murmured: