The man was lean and wizened, twisted like a vine-shoot, with long, dust-coloured hair and a melancholy, impassive face that seemed carved out of old oak. He put in an appearance at Saint-Elophe once every three or four months. He knocked at the doors of the houses and then went off again. "What country do you belong to, to begin with?" He grunted: "Don't know much about it ... it's so long ago...." "Which do you like best? France, eh? The roads on this side?" The old chap swung his legs without answering, perhaps without understanding. Saboureux grinned: "He doesn't look at the roads, not he! He doesn't as much as know if he belongs to the country on the right or on the left! His country lies where the grub lies ... eh, Poussiere?" Thereupon, seized with sudden ill-humour, Morestal lost his temper and let fly at the lukewarm, at the indifferent--working-men, townsmen or farmers--who think only of their comfort, without caring whether the country is humiliated or victorious. But what else could one expect, with the detestable ideas spread by some of the newspapers and carried to the furthermost ends of the country in the books and pamphlets hawked about by travelling agents? "Yes," he cried, "the new ideas: those are the evil that is destroying us. The school-masters are poisoning the minds of the young. The very army is smitten with the canker. Whole regiments are on the verge of mutiny...." He turned a questioning glance upon Philippe, who, from time to time, nodded his head without replying, with a movement which his father might take for one of approval. "Isn't it so, Philippe? You see the thing close at hand, where you are: all those poltroons who weaken our energies with their fine dreams of peace at any price! You hear them, all the wind-bags at the public meetings, who preach their loathsome crusade against the army and the country with open doors and are backed up by our rulers.... And that's only speaking of the capital!... Why, the very provinces haven't escaped the contagion!... Here, have you read this abomination?" He took a little volume in a violet wrapper from among the papers heaped up on his table and held it before his son's eyes. And he continued: "_Peace before All!_ No author's name. A book that's all the more dangerous because it's very well written, not by one of those wind-bags to whom I was referring just now, but by a scholar, a provincial and, what's more, a Frenchman from the frontier. He seems even to bear our name ... some distant cousin, no doubt: the Morestals are a large family." "Are you sure?" blurted Philippe, who had turned pale at the sight of the pamphlet. "How do you know?" "Oh, by accident.... A letter which was addressed to me and which said, 'All good wishes for the success of your pamphlet, my dear Morestal.'" Philippe remembered. He was to have gone to the Old Mill last year; and the letter must have been sent to him by one of his friends. "And haven't you tried to find out?"