"Not a shot!... Let no one show himself!"
The order flew from mouth to mouth and silence and immobility reigned in the Old Mill, from one end to the other of the house and grounds. Each one stood at his post. All along the wall, the soldiers kept themselves hidden, perched upright on their improvised talus.
At that moment, one of the drawing-room doors opened and old Morestal appeared on his wife's arm. Dressed in a pair of trousers and a waistcoat, bare-headed, tangle-haired, with a handkerchief fastened round his neck, he staggered on his wavering legs. Nevertheless, a sort of gladness, like an inward smile, lighted his features.
"Let me be," he said to his wife, who was endeavouring to support him.
He steadied his gait and walked to the gun-rack, where the twelve rifles stood in a row.
He took out one with feverish haste, felt it, with the touch of a sportsman recognizing his favourite weapon, passed in front of Philippe, without appearing to see him, and went out on the terrace.
"You, M. Morestal!" said Captain Daspry.
Pointing to the frontier, the old man asked:
"Are they there?"
"Yes."