Whatever might be the eventual outcome of this last effort, it was a respite granted to the two nations. It gave a gleam of hope, it left a loop-hole, a chance of an arrangement. And old Morestal, seized with fresh confidence and already triumphant, rejoiced, as he could not fail to do: "Why, of course," he concluded, "it will all be settled! Didn't I tell you so from the beginning, Philippe? It only wanted a little firmness.... We have spoken clearly; and, at once, under a show of conciliation which will deceive no one, the enemy forms a plan of retreat. For, mark you, that's all that it means...." And, as he continued to read the paper, he exclaimed: "Ah, just so!... I understand!... Listen, Philippe, to this little telegram, which sounds like nothing at all: 'England has recalled her squadrons from foreign waters and is concentrating them in the Channel and in the North Sea.' Aha, that solves the mystery! They have reflected ... and reflection is the mother of wisdom.... And here, Philippe, this other telegram, which is worth noting: 'Three hundred French aviators, from every part of France, have responded to the rousing appeal issued by Captain Leriot of the territorials, the hero of the Channel crossing. They will all be at Chalons camp on Tuesday, with their aeroplanes!'... Ha, what do you say to that, my boy? On the one side, the British fleet.... On the other side, our air fleet.... Wipe your pretty eyes, my sweet Suzanne, and get supper ready this evening for Papa Jorance! Ah, this time, mother, we'll drink champagne!" His gaiety sounded a little forced and found no echo in his hearers. Philippe remained silent, with his forehead streaked with a wrinkle which Marthe knew well. From his appearance, from the tired look of his eyelids, she felt certain that he had sat up all night, examining the position from every point of view and seeking the best road to follow. Had he taken a resolution? And, if so, which? He seemed so hard, so stern, so close and reticent that she dared not ask him. After a hastily-served meal, Morestal, on the receipt of a second telephonic communication, hurried off to Saint-Elophe, where M. Le Corbier, the under-secretary of state, was waiting for him. Philippe, the time of whose summons had been postponed, went to his room and locked himself in. When he came down again, he found Marthe and Suzanne, who had decided to go with him. Mme. Morestal took him aside and, for the last time, urged him to look after his father. The three of them walked away to the Col du Diable. A lowering sky, heavy with clouds, hung over the mountain-tops; but the weather was mild and the swards, studded with trees, still wore a look of summer. Marthe, to break the silence, said: