Le Corbier turned to the special commissary:
“M. Jorancé, do you confirm this deposition?”
“I confirm each of my friend Morestal’s words in every respect,” said the commissary. “They express the truth. I swear it on the head of my daughter.”
“The policemen have taken just as solemn oaths,” observed Le Corbier.
“The German policemen’s evidence is interested. It helps them to shield the fault which they have committed. We have committed no fault. If chance had caused us to be arrested on German territory, no power on earth would have prevented Morestal and myself from admitting the fact. Morestal is free and fears nothing. Well, I, who am a prisoner, fear nothing either.”
“That is the view which the French government has adopted,” said the under-secretary. “Moreover, we have additional evidence: yours, M. Philippe Morestal. That evidence the government, through an excessive feeling of scruple, has not wished to recognize officially. As a matter of fact, it appeared to us less firm, more undecided, at the second hearing than at the first. But, such as it is, it assumes a peculiar value in my eyes, because it corroborates that of the two other witnesses. M. Philippe Morestal, do you maintain the terms of your deposition, word for word?”
Philippe rose, looked at his father, pushed back Marthe, who came running up to him, and replied, in a low voice:
“No, monsieur le ministre.”
CHAPTER VII
MARTHE ASKS A QUESTION
THE CONFLICT WAS immediate. Between Morestal and Philippe, the duel set in at once. The events of the previous days had cleared the way for it: at the first word, they stood up to each other like irreconcilable adversaries, the father spirited and aggressive, the son anxious and sad, but inflexible.
Le Corbier at once foresaw a scene. He went out of the tent, ordered the sentry to stand away, made sure that the group of Germans could not hear the sound of the raised voices. Then, after carefully closing the fly, he returned to his place.
“You are mad! You are mad!” said Morestal, who had come up to his son. “How dare you?”
And Jorancé joined in:
“Come, come, Philippe ... this is not serious.... You are not going to back out, to withdraw....”
Le Corbier silenced them and, addressing Philippe:
“Explain yourself, monsieur,” he said. “I do not understand.”
Philippe looked at his father again and, slowly, in a voice which he strove to render firm as he spoke, answered:
“I say, monsieur le ministre, that certain particulars in my evidence are not accurate and that it is my duty to correct them.”
“Speak, monsieur,” said the under-secretary, with some harshness.
Philippe did not hesitate. Facing old Morestal, who was quivering with indignation, he began, as though he were in a hurry to get it over:
“First of all, Private Baufeld did not say things that were quite as clear as those which I repeated. The words used were obscure and incoherent.”
“What! Why, your declarations are precise....”
“Monsieur le ministre, when I gave my evidence for the first time before the examining-magistrate, I was under the shock of my father’s arrest. I was under his influence. It seemed to me that the incident would have no consequences if the arrest had been effected on German territory; and, when relating Private Baufeld’s last words, in spite of myself, without knowing it, I interpreted them in the sense of my own wishes. Later on, I understood my mistake. I am now repairing it.”
He stopped. The under-secretary turned over his papers, no doubt read through Philippe’s evidence and asked:
“As far as concerns Private Baufeld, have you nothing to add?”
Philippe’s legs seemed on the point of giving way beneath him, so much so that Le Corbier asked him to sit down.
He obeyed and, mastering himself, said:
“Yes, I have. I have a revelation to make in this respect which is very painful to me. My father evidently attached no importance to it; but it seems to me ...”
“What do you mean?” cried Morestal.
“Oh, father, I beseech you!” entreated Philippe, folding his hands together. “We are not here to quarrel, nor to judge each other, but to do our duty. Mine is horrible. Do not discourage me. You shall condemn me afterwards, if you see cause.”
“I condemn you as it is, Philippe.”
Le Corbier made an imperious gesture and repeated, in a yet more peremptory tone:
“Speak, M. Philippe Morestal.”
Philippe said, bringing the words out very quickly:
“Monsieur le ministre, Private Baufeld had relations on this side of the frontier. His desertion was prepared, backed up. He knew the safe road which he was to take.”
“Through whom did he know it?”
Philippe lowered his head and, with half-closed eyes, whispered:
“Through my father!”
“That’s not true!” shouted old Morestal, purple with rage. “That’s not true! I prepare ... I!...”
“Here is the paper which I found in Private Baufeld’s pocket,” said Philippe, handing a sheet of note-paper to Le Corbier. “It gives a sort of plan of escape, the road which the fugitive is to follow, the exact spot at which he is to cross the frontier so as to avoid the watchers.”
“What are you saying? What are you daring to say? A correspondence between me and that wretch!”
“The two words, ‘Albern Path,’ are in your hand-writing, father, and it was through the Albern Path that the deserter entered France. The sheet is a sheet of your own note-paper.”
Morestal gave a bound:
“And you took it from the waste-paper basket, where it lay torn and crumpled! You did a thing like that, you, my son! You had the infamy ...”
“Oh, father!”
“Then what? Answer!”
“Private Baufeld gave it me before his death.”
Morestal was standing opposite Philippe, with his arms crossed over his chest, and, so far from defending himself against his son’s accusations, seemed rather to be addressing a culprit.
And Philippe looked at him with eyes of anguish. At each blow that he struck, at each sentence that he uttered, he detected the mark of a wound on his father’s face. A vein swelling on the old man’s temples distressed him beyond measure. He was terrified to see streaks of blood mingle with the whites of his eyes. And he feared, at every moment, that his father would fall like a tree which the axe has struck to the heart.
The under-secretary, after examining the sheet of paper which Philippe had given him, resumed:
“In any case, M. Morestal, these lines were written by you?”
“Yes, monsieur le ministre. I have already stated what the man Dourlowski tried to get out of me and the answer which I gave him.”
“Was it the first time that the fellow made the attempt?...”
“The first time,” said Morestal, after an imperceptible hesitation.
“Then this paper?... These lines?...”
“Those lines were written by me in the course of the conversation. Upon reflection, I threw away the paper. I see now that Dourlowski must have picked it up behind my back and used it in order to carry out his plan. If the police had discovered it on the deserter, it would have been a proof of my guilt. At least, they would have interpreted it in that way ... as my son does. I hope, monsieur le ministre, that that interpretation is not yours.”
Le Corbier sat thinking for a moment or two, consulted the documents and said:
“The two governments have agreed to leave outside the discussion all that concerns Private Baufeld’s desertion, the part played by the man Dourlowski and the accusation of complicity made against the French commissary and against yourself, M. Morestal. These are legal questions which concern the German courts. The only purpose for which I have been delegated is to ascertain whether or not the arrest took place on French territory. My instructions are extremely limited. I cannot go beyond them. I w
ill ask you, therefore, M. Philippe Morestal, to tell me, or rather to confirm to me, what you know on this subject.”
“I know nothing.”
A moment of stupefaction followed. Morestal, utterly bewildered, did not even think of protesting. He evidently looked upon his son as mad.
“You know nothing?” said the under-secretary, who did not yet clearly see Philippe’s object. “All the same, you have declared that you heard M. Jorancé’s exclamation, ‘We are in France!... They are arresting the French commissary!...’”
“I did not hear it.”
“What! What! But you were not two hundred yards away....”
“I was nowhere near. I left my father at the Carrefour du Grand-Chêne and I neither saw nor heard what happened after we had parted.”
“Then why did you state the contrary, monsieur?”
“I repeat, monsieur le ministre, when my father returned, I at once understood the importance of the first words which we should speak in the presence of the examining-magistrate. I thought that, by supporting my father’s story, I should be helping to prevent trouble. To-day, in the face of the inexorable facts, I am reverting to the pure and simple truth.”
His replies were clear and unhesitating. There was no doubt that he was following a line of conduct which he had marked out in advance and from which nothing would make him swerve.
Morestal and Jorancé listened to him in dismay.
Marthe sat silent and motionless, with her eyes glued to her husband’s.
Le Corbier concluded:
“You mean to say that you will not accept your share of the responsibility?”
“I accept the responsibility for all that I have done.”
“But you withdraw from the case?”
“In so far as I am concerned, yes.”
“Then I must cancel your evidence and rely upon the unshaken testimony of M. Morestal: is that it?”
Philippe was silent.
“Eh, what?” cried Morestal. “You don’t answer?”
There was a sort of entreaty in the old man’s voice, a desperate appeal to Philippe’s better feelings. His anger almost fell, so great was his unhappiness at seeing his son, his boy, a prey to this madness.
“You mean that, don’t you?” he resumed, gently. “You mean that monsieur le ministre can and must abide by my declarations?”
“No,” said Philippe, stubbornly.
Morestal started:
“No? But why? What reason have you for answering like that? Why should you?”
“Because, father, though the nature of your declarations has not varied, your attitude, during the last three days, proves that you are experiencing a certain reticence, a certain hesitation.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Morestal, trembling all over, but as yet retaining his self-control.
“Your certainty is not absolute.”
“How do you know? If you make an accusation, you must prove it.”
“I am not making an accusation. I am trying to state my exact impression.”
“Your impression! What is that worth beside the facts? And it is facts that I am asserting.”
“Facts interpreted by yourself, father, facts of which you cannot be sure. No, no, you cannot! Remember, the other morning, Friday morning, we came back here and, while you were once more showing me the road which you had covered, you said, ‘Still, suppose I were mistaken! Suppose we had branched off more to the right! Suppose I were mistaken!’”
“That was an exaggeration of scruple! All my acts, on the contrary, all my reflections ...”
“There was no need to reflect! There was not even any need to return to this road! The fact that you returned to it shows that you were harassed by a doubt.”
“I have not doubted for one second.”
“You believe that you do not doubt, father! You believe blindly in your certainty! And you believe because you do not see clearly. You have within you a sentiment that soars above all your thoughts and all your actions, an admirable sentiment, a sentiment that makes you great: it is your love for France. You think that France is always in the right against one and all, come what may, and that she would be disgraced if she were ever in the wrong. That was the frame of mind in which you gave your evidence before the examining-magistrate. And that is the frame of mind which I ask you, monsieur le ministre, to take note of.”
“And you,” shouted old Morestal, bursting out at last, “I accuse you of being impelled by some horrible sentiment against your father, against your country, by I can’t say what infamous ideas....”
“My ideas are outside the question....”
“Your ideas, which I can guess, are at the back of your conduct and of your mental aberration. If I love France too well, you, you are too ready to forget your duty to her.”
“I love her as well as you do, father,” cried Philippe, passionately, “and better, perhaps! It is a love that sometimes moves me to tears, when I think of what she has been, of what she is, so beautiful, so intelligent, so great, so adorable for her charm and her good faith! I love her because she is the mother of every lofty idea. I love her because her language is the clearest and noblest of all languages. I love her because she is always marching on, regardless of consequences, and because she sings as she marches and because she is gay and active and alive, always full of hopes and of illusions, and because she is the smile on the face of the world.... But I cannot see that she would be any the less great or admirable for admitting that one of her officials was captured twenty yards to the right of the frontier.”
“Why should she admit it, if it is not true?” said Morestal.
“Why should she not admit it, if peace should be the outcome?” retorted Philippe.
“Peace! There’s the great word at last!” sneered Morestal. “Peace! You too have allowed yourself to be poisoned by the theories of the day! Peace at the price of disgrace: that’s it, is it not?”
“Peace at the price of an infinitesimal sacrifice of self-esteem.”
“That means dishonour.”
“No, no,” Philippe answered, in an outburst of enthusiasm. “It is the beauty of a nation to raise itself above those miserable questions. And France is worthy of it. You do not know it, father, but since the last forty years, since that execrable date, since that accursed war the memory of which obsesses your mind and closes your eyes to every reality of life, a new France has come into existence, a France whose gaze is fixed upon other truths, a France that longs to shake off the evil past, to repudiate all that remains to us of the ancient barbarism and to rid herself of the laws of blood and war. She cannot do so yet, but she is making for it with all her young ardour and all her growing conviction. And twice already, in ten years — in the heart of Africa, face to face with England; on the shores of Morocco, face to face with Germany — twice she has overcome her old barbarous instinct.”
“Shameful memories, for which every Frenchman blushes!”
“Glorious memories, of which we should be proud! One day, those will be the fairest pages of our time; and those two dates will wipe out the execrable date. That is the true revenge! That a nation which has never known fear, which has always, at the tragic hours of its history, settled its quarrels in the old barbarous fashion, sword in hand, that such a nation should have raised itself to so magnificent a conception of beauty and civilization, that, I say, is its finest claim to glory!”
“Words! Words! It’s the theory of peace at any price; and it is a lie that you are advising me to tell.”
“No, it is the possible truth that I ask you to admit, cruel though it may be for you to do so.”
“But you know the truth,” cried Morestal, waving his arms in the air. “You’ve sworn it three times! You’ve signed it three times with your name! You saw and heard the truth on the night of the attack!”
“I do not know it,” said Philippe, in a firm voice. “I was not there. I was not present when you were captured and carried off. I did not hea
r M. Jorancé’s call. I swear it on my honour. I swear it on the heads of my children. I was not there.”
“Then where were you?” asked Marthe.
CHAPTER VIII
THE STAGES TO CALVARY
THE LITTLE SENTENCE, so terrible in its conciseness, set up a clear issue between the two adversaries.
Carried away by the exuberance of their convictions, they had widened the discussion into a sort of oratorical joust in which each fought eagerly for the opinions which he held dear. And Le Corbier knew better than to interrupt a duel whence he had little doubt that some unexpected light would flash, at last, from amid the superfluous words.
Marthe’s little sentence evoked that light. Le Corbier, from the beginning of the scene, had noticed the young woman’s strange attitude, her silence, her fevered glances that seemed to probe Philippe Morestal’s very soul. He understood the full value of the question from her accent. No more vain declamations and eloquent theories! It was no longer a matter of knowing which of the two, the father or the son, thought the more justly and served his country with the greater devotion. One thing alone carried weight; and Marthe had stated it in undeniable fashion.
Philippe stood dumbfoundered. In the course of his reflections, he had foreseen every demand, every supposition, every difficulty, in short, all the consequences of the action upon which he had resolved. But how could he have foreseen this one, not knowing that Marthe would be present at that last and greatest interview? Before Le Corbier, before his father, supposing this detail entered their heads, he could invent an excuse of some kind. But before Marthe?...
From that moment, he had the terrifying vision of the catastrophe that was preparing. A sweat covered his whole body. He ought to have faced the danger bravely and piled explanation on explanation at the risk of contradicting himself. As it was, he turned red and stammered. And, in so doing, he put himself out of court.
Morestal had resumed his seat. Le Corbier was waiting, impassively. Amid the great silence, Marthe, now quite pale, speaking in a slow voice, which let fall the syllables one by one, said:
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 339
