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

There were several ways leading to Saint-Elophe. First of all, the
high-road, which goes winding down a slope some two miles long; next, a
few rather steep short cuts; and, lastly, further no