"That's quite easy," said Morestal, taking up a pencil and a sheet of note-paper. "Look, here are the Albern Woods. Here's the Col du Diable. Here's the Butte-aux-Loups.... Well, he's only got to leave the woods by the Fontaine-Froide and take the first path to the left, by the Roche de ..." He suddenly interrupted himself, looked at Dourlowski with a suspicious air and said: "But you know the road as well as I do ... there's no doubt about that.... So ..." "My word," said Dourlowski, "I always go by the Col du Diable and the factory." Morestal reflected for a moment, scribbled a few lines and a few words in an absent-minded sort of way and then, with a movement of quick resolution, took the sheet of note-paper, crumpled it into a ball and flung it into the waste-paper basket: "No, no, certainly not!" he cried. "I've had enough of this nonsense! One succeeds four times; and, at the fifth attempt.... Besides, it's not a business I care about.... A soldier's a soldier ... whatever uniform he wears...." "Still ..." mumbled Dourlowski. "I refuse. Not to mention that they suspect me over yonder. The German commissary gives me a queer look when he meets me; and I won't risk ..." "You're risking nothing." "That'll do; and clear out of this as fast as you can.... Oh, wait a second!... I think I ... Listen ..." Morestal ran to the windows overlooking the garden. Quick as thought, Dourlowski stooped and fished Morestal's crumpled sheet out of the waste-paper basket. He hid it in the palm of his hand and, raising his voice: "We'll say no more about it, as you don't see your way to help me," he said. "I give it up." "That's it," said Morestal, who had seen no one in the garden. "You give it up, my friend: it's the best thing you can do." He took Dourlowski by the shoulders and pushed him towards the terrace: "Be off ... and don't come back.... There's nothing more for you to do here ... absolutely nothing...." He hoped to get rid of the fellow without being perceived, but, as he reached the gate, he saw his wife, his son and Marthe come up the staircase, after strolling round the walls of the Old Mill. Dourlowski took off his hat and distributed bows all round. Then, as soon as the road was clear, he disappeared. Mme. Morestal expressed her astonishment: "What! Do you still see that rogue of a Dourlowski?" "Oh, it was an accident!..." "You are very wrong to have him in the house. We don't even know where he comes from or what his trade is." "He's a hawker." "A spy, rather: that's what they say about him." "Tah! In the pay of which country?" "Of both, very likely. Victor thinks he saw him with the German commissary, two Sundays ago." "With Weisslicht? Impossible. He doesn't even know him." "I'm telling you what they say. In any case, Morestal, be careful with that fellow. He's a bird of ill-omen." "Come, come, mother, no hard words. This is a day of rejoicing.... Are you ready, Philippe?" CHAPTER VI THE PLASTER STATUE