The Frontier

There was only one vacant chair, next to Jorancé. Suzanne took a few steps and looked at her father, whom she had not seen since the evening at Saint-Élophe. He turned away his head. She sat down trembling.

Then Le Corbier, who was in a hurry to finish the business, walked quickly up to Philippe and said:

"It is the last time, monsieur, that I shall apply to you. In a few minutes, everything will be irrevocably ended. It depends on your good will…"

But he went no further. Never had he beheld a face ravaged as Philippe's was, nor ever so great an expression of strength and energy as showed through the chaos of those distorted features. He understood that Philippe had resolved to travel the last stage. He waited, without a word.

And indeed, as though he too were eager to reach the terrible goal, Philippe spoke and said:

"Monsieur le ministre, if I tell you for certain how I spent my night, will my words have an unimpeachable value in your mind?"

His voice was almost calm. His eyes had selected a spot in the tent from which he no longer dared remove them, for he feared to meet Marthe's eyes, or Jorancé's, or Suzanne's.

Le Corbier replied:

"An unimpeachable value."

"Will they tend to lessen the importance of my father's statements?"

"Yes, for I shall have to weigh those statements against the words of a man whose perfect sincerity I shall no longer have cause to doubt."

Philippe was silent. His forehead oozed sweat at every pore and he staggered like a drunken man on the point of falling.

Le Corbier insisted:

"Speak without scruple, monsieur. There are circumstances in which a man must look straight before him and in which the aim to be attained must, in a measure, blind him."

Philippe continued:

"And you think, monsieur le ministre, that your report, thus modified, may have a decisive influence in Paris?"

"I say so, positively. The prime minister has allowed me to look into his secret thoughts. Moreover, I know what he is capable of doing. If the conclusions of my report give him a little latitude, he will ring up the German embassy and mount the tribune in order to bring the chamber, to bring the country face to face with the facts as they are. The cabinet will fall amid a general outcry, there will be a few riots, but we shall have peace … and peace, as you, monsieur, were saying a moment ago, peace without dishonour, at the price of an infinitesimal sacrifice of self-esteem, which will make France greater than ever."

"Yes … yes …" said Philippe. "But, if it should be too late? If it should no longer be possible to prevent anything?"

"That," said Le Corbier, "is a thing which we cannot foretell… It may, as a matter of fact, be too late…"

This was the hardest thought of all for Philippe. Deep hollows appeared in his cheeks. The minutes seemed to age him like long years of sickness. The sight of him suggested the faces of the dying martyrs in certain primitive pictures. Nothing short of physical pain can thus convulse the features of a man's countenance. And he really suffered as much as if he were being stretched on the rack and burnt with red-hot pincers. Nevertheless, he felt that his mind remained lucid, as must be that of the martyrs undergoing torture, and he clearly understood that, in consequence of a series of inexorable facts, he had, for a few moments – but on the most terrible conditions! – the power of perhaps … of perhaps saving the world from the great scourge of war.

He stiffened himself and, livid in the face, said:

"Monsieur le ministre, what my wife suspected, what you have already guessed, is the exact truth. On Monday night, while the arrest was taking place and while the two captives were being carried to Germany, I was with Suzanne Jorancé."

It was as though Jorancé, standing behind him, had been waiting for the accusation as for an attack that must be parried without delay:

"Suzanne! My daughter!" he cried, seizing Philippe by the collar of his jacket. "What are you saying, you villain? How dare you?"

Marthe had not stirred, remained as though stunned. Old Morestal protested indignantly. Philippe whispered:

"I am saying what happened."

"You lie! You lie!" roared Jorancé. "My daughter, the purest, the most honest girl in the world! Why don't you confess that you lie?.. Confess it!.. Confess it!.."

The poor man was choking. The words were caught short in his throat. His whole frame seemed to quiver; and his eyes were filled with gleams of hatred and murderous longings and anger and, above all, pain, infinite, pitiless, human pain.

And he entreated and commanded by turns:

"Confess, confess!.. You're lying, aren't you?.. It's because of your opinions, that's it, because of your opinions!.. You want a proof … an alibi … and so …"

And, addressing Le Corbier:

"Leave me alone with him, monsieur le ministre… He will confess to me that he is lying, that he is talking like that because he has to … or because he is mad … who knows? Yes, because he is mad!.. How could she love you? Why should she? Since when? She, who is your wife's friend… Get out, I know my daughter!.. But answer, you villain!.. Morestal, my friend, make him answer … make him give his proofs… And you, Suzanne, why don't you spit in his face?"

He turned upon Suzanne; and Marthe, rousing herself from her torpor, went up to the girl, as he did.

Suzanne stood tottering on her feet, with averted gaze.

"Well, what's this?" roared her father. "Won't you answer either? Haven't you a word to answer to that liar?"

She tried to speak, stammered a few confused syllables and was silent.

Philippe met her eyes, the eyes of a hunted fawn, a pair of poor eyes pleading for help.

"You admit it! You admit it!" shouted Jorancé.

And he made a sudden rush at her; and Philippe, as in a nightmare, saw Suzanne flung back, shaken by her father, struck by Marthe, who, she too, in an abrupt fit of fury, demanded the useless confession.

It was a horrible and violent scene. Le Corbier and M. de Trébons interfered, while Morestal, shaking his fist at Philippe, cried:

"I curse you! You're a criminal! Let her be, Jorancé. She couldn't help it, poor thing. He is the one to blame… Yes, you, you, my son!.. And I curse you… I turn you out…"

The old man pressed his hand to his heart, stammered a few words more, begging Jorancé's pardon and promising to look after his daughter, then turned on his heels and fell against the table, fainting…

PART III

CHAPTER I

THE ARMED VIGIL

"Ma'am!"

"What is it? What's the matter?" asked Mme. Morestal, waking with a start.

"It's I, Catherine."

"Well?"

"They have sent from the town-hall, ma'am… They are asking for the master… They want instructions… Victor says the troops are being mobilized…"