And they, who had let it loose—the actors of no account, relegated to the background, the supernumeraries whose parts were played—they could see nothing of the spectacle but distant, blood-red gleams.
Philippe took refuge in a fierce silence that distressed his wife. Morestal was nervous, excited and in an execrable temper. He went out for no reason, came in again at once, could not keep still:
"Ah," he cried, in a moment of despondency in which his thoughts stood plainly revealed, "why did we come home by the frontier? Why did I help that deserter? For there's no denying it: if I hadn't helped him, nothing would have happened."
On Friday evening, it became known that the chancellor, who already had the German reports in his hands, now possessed the French papers, which had been communicated by our ambassador. The affair, hitherto purely administrative, was becoming diplomatic. And the government was demanding the release of the special commissary of Saint-Élophe, who had been arrested on French territory.
"If they consent, all will be well," said Morestal. "There is no humiliation for Germany in disowning the action of a pack of minor officials. But, if they refuse, if they believe the policemen's lies, what will happen then? France cannot give way."
On Saturday morning, the Börsweilener Zeitung printed the following short paragraph in a special edition:
"After making a careful examination of the French papers, the chancellor has returned them to the French ambassador. The case of Commissary Jorancé, accused of the crime of high treason and arrested on German territory, will be tried in the German courts."
It was a refusal.