"Nonsense!" "I tell you, they are. It seems that there's a secret desertion-office in these parts. I'm supposed to be at the head of it. And you, you are the heart and soul of it." "Oh, they can't stand me at any price!" "Nor me either. Weisslicht, the German commissary at Boersweilen, has sworn a mortal hatred against me. We cut each other now when we meet. There's not a doubt but that he is responsible for the calumnies." "But what proofs do they put forward?" "Any number ... all equally bad.... Among others, this: pieces of French gold which are said to have been found on their soldiers. So you see ... with the post tumbling down once more, the explanations that are certain to begin all over again, the enquiries that are certain to be opened...." Philippe went up to him: "Come, come, I don't suppose it's so serious as all that." "You think not, my boy? Then you haven't seen the stop-press telegrams in this morning's papers?" "No," said Philippe and his father. "What's the news?" "An incident in Asia Minor. A quarrel between the French and German officials. One of the consuls has been killed." "Oh, oh!" said Morestal. "This time ..." And Jorance went into details: "Yes, the position is exceedingly strained. The Morocco question has been opened again. Then there's the espionage business and the story of the French air-men flying over the fortresses in Alsace and dropping tricolour flags in the Strasburg streets.... For six months, it has been one long series of complications and shocks. The newspapers are becoming aggressive in their language. Both countries are arming, strengthening their defences. In short, in spite of the good intentions of the two governments, we are at the mercy of an accident. A spark ... and the thing's done." A heavy silence weighed upon the three men. Each of them conjured up the sinister vision according to his own temperament and instincts. Jorance repeated: "A spark ... and the thing's done." "Well, let it be done!" said Morestal, with an angry gesture. Philippe gave a start: "What are you saying, father?" "Well, what! There must be an end to all this." "But the end need not be in blood." "Nonsense ... nonsense.... There are injuries that can only be wiped out in blood. And, when a great country like ours has received a slap in the face like that of 1870, it can wait forty years, fifty years, but a day comes when it returns the slap in the face ... and with both hands!" "And suppose we are beaten?" said Philippe.