"And suppose we are beaten, in spite of all?" Philippe asked again. "What's that?" Old Morestal turned to his son as though he had received a blow; and a rush of blood inflamed his features. He looked Philippe in the face: "What do you say?" Philippe had an inkling of the conflict that would hurl them one against the other if he dared to state his objections more minutely. And he uttered words at random: "Of course, the supposition is not one of those which we can entertain.... But, all the same ... don't you think we ought to face the possibility?..." "Face the possibility of defeat?" echoed the old man, who seemed thunderstruck. "Are you suggesting that the fear of that ought to influence France in her conduct?" A diversion relieved Philippe of his difficulty. Some one had appeared from the staircase at the end of the terrace and in so noisy a fashion that Morestal did not wait for his son to reply: "Is that you, Saboureux? What a row you're making!" It was Farmer Saboureux, whose house could be seen on the Col du Diable. He was accompanied by an old, ragged tramp. Saboureux had come to complain. Some soldiers taking part in the manoeuvres had helped themselves to two of his chickens and a duck. He seemed beside himself, furious at the catastrophe: "Only, I've a witness in old Poussiere here. And I want an indemnity, not to speak of damages and punishment. I call it a calamity, I do: soldiers of our own country!... I'm a good Frenchman, but, all the same ..." Morestal was too much absorbed in the discussion of his favourite ideas to take the least interest in the man's troubles; and the farmer's presence, on the contrary, seemed to him an excellent reason for returning to the subject in hand. They had other things to talk about than chickens and ducks! What about the chances of war? And the alarming rumours that were current? "What do you say, Saboureux?" The farmer presented the typical appearance of those peasants whom we sometimes find in the eastern provinces and who, with their stern, clean-shaven faces, like the faces on ancient medals, remind us of our Roman ancestors rather than of the Gauls or Francs. He had marched to battle in 1870 with the others, perishing with hunger and wretchedness, risking his skin. And, on his return, he had found his shanty reduced to ashes. Some passing Uhlans.... Since that time, he had laboured hard to repair the harm done. "And you want it all over again?" he said. "More Uhlans burning and sacking?... Oh, no, I've had enough of that game! You just let me be as I am!" He was filled with the small land-owner's hatred against all those, Frenchmen or others, who were likely to tread with a sacrilegious foot on the sown earth, where the harvest is so slow in coming. He crossed his arms, with a serious air. "And you, Poussiere, what would you say if we went to war?" asked Morestal, calling to the old tramp, who was sitting on the parapet of the terrace, breaking a crust.