“Monsieur le ministre, I accuse my husband of perjury and falsehood. It is now, when he withdraws his former evidence, that he is sinning against the truth, against a truth which he knows ... yes, he knows it, that I declare. By all that he has told me; by all that I know, I swear that he never questioned his father’s word. And I swear that he was present at the attack.”
“Then,” asked Le Corbier, “why does M. Philippe Morestal act as he is doing now?”
“Monsieur le ministre,” replied Marthe, “my husband is the author of the pamphlet entitled, Peace before All!”
The disclosure created a sort of sensation. Le Corbier gave a start. The commissary wore an indignant air. As for old Morestal, he tried to stand up, staggered and at once fell back in his seat. All his strength had left him. His anger gave way before an immense despair. He could not have suffered more had he heard that Philippe was dead.
And Marthe repeated:
“My husband is the author of the pamphlet entitled Peace before All! For the sake of his opinions, for the sake of consistency with the profound, the exalted faith to which his views give rise within him, my husband is capable ...”
Le Corbier suggested:
“Of going to the length of a lie?”
“Yes,” she said. “False evidence can only appear insignificant to him beside the great catastrophe which he wishes to avert; and his conscience alone dictates his duty to him. Is it true, Philippe?”
He replied, gravely:
“Certainly. In the circumstances in which we find ourselves placed, when two nations are at daggers drawn over a wretched question of self-esteem, I should not shrink from a lie that appears to me a duty. But I have no need to resort to that expedient. I have truth itself on my side. I was not there.”
“Then where were you?” repeated Marthe.
The little sentence rang out again, pitilessly. But, this time, Marthe uttered it in a more hostile tone and with a gesture that underlined all its importance. And she at once added, plying him with questions:
“You did not come in until eight o’clock in the morning. Your bed was not undone. Consequently, you had not slept at the Old Mill. Where did you spend the night?”
“I was looking for my father.”
“You did not know that your father had been carried off until Private Baufeld told you, at five o’clock in the morning. Consequently, it was five o’clock in the morning before you began to look for your father.”
“Yes.”
“And, at that moment, you had not yet returned to the Old Mill, because, I repeat, your bed was not undone.”
“No.”
“And where did you come from? What were you doing from eleven o’clock in the evening, when you left your father, until five o’clock in the morning, when you heard of his capture?”
The cross-examination, with its unimpeachable logic, left Philippe no loop-hole for escape. He felt that he was lost.
For a moment, he was on the point of throwing up the game and exclaiming:
“Well, yes, I was there. I heard everything. My father is right. We must accept his word....”
This was a display of weakness which a man like Philippe was bound and fated to resist. On the other hand, how could he betray Suzanne?
He crossed his arms over his chest and muttered:
“I have nothing to say.”
Marthe, suddenly dropping her accusing tone and shaking with anguish, rushed up to him and cried:
“You have nothing to say? What do you mean? Oh, Philippe, I entreat you, speak!... Confess that you are lying and that you were there ... I beseech you.... My mind is full of horrible thoughts.... Things have been happening — I have noticed them — which obsess me now.... It’s not true, tell me that it’s not true!”
He thought that he beheld salvation in this unexpected distress. Disarmed, reduced to silence by a sort of confession which he could retract at leisure, his wife was making herself his accomplice and rescuing him by ceasing to attack him.
“You must be silent,” he said, in a tone of command. “Your personal grief must make way....”
“What are you saying?”
“Be silent, Marthe. We shall have the explanation which you demand. We shall have it later. But be silent.”
It was a useless piece of blundering. Like all women who love, Marthe only suffered the more from this semi-avowal. She fired up in her grief:
“No, Philippe, I will not be silent.... I want to know what your words mean.... You have no right to escape by a subterfuge.... I demand an immediate explanation, here and now.”
She had stood up and, facing her husband, emphasized each of her words with a short movement of the hand. Seeing that Philippe made no reply, Le Corbier now joined in:
“Mme. Philippe Morestal is right, monsieur. You must explain yourself and not so much for her — that is a matter between yourselves — as for me, for the purpose of the clearness of my enquiry. Ever since we began, you have kept to a sort of programme settled in advance and easily seen through. After denying your first depositions, you are trying to demolish your own father’s evidence. The doubt which I was seeking behind your replies you are now endeavouring to create in my mind by throwing suspicion upon your father’s statements by every means in your power. I have the right to ask myself if one of those means is not falsehood — the word is not mine, monsieur, but your wife’s — and if the love of your opinions does not take precedence of the love of truth.”
“I am telling the truth, monsieur le ministre.”
“Then prove it. Are you giving false evidence now? Or was it on the former occasions? How am I to know? I require a positive certainty. If I can’t have that, I shall take no notice of what you say and rely upon the evidence of a witness who, at any rate, has never varied.”
“My father is mistaken.... My father is a victim of illusions....”
“Until I receive a proof to the contrary, monsieur, your accusations can carry no weight with me. They will do so only if you give me an undeniable proof of your sincerity. Now there is only one that would bear that undeniable character; and you refuse to supply me with it....”
“But ...”
“I tell you, monsieur,” Le Corbier interrupted, impatiently, “that there is no other question at issue. Either you were on the frontier at the time of the attack and heard M. Jorancé’s protests, in which case your former evidence and M. Morestal’s retain all their importance, or else you were not there, in which case it becomes your imperative duty to prove to me that you were not there. It is very easy: where were you at that moment?”
Philippe had a fit of rebellion and, replying aloud to the thoughts that tortured him:
“Ah, no!” he said. “Ah, no!... It’s not possible that I should be forced to.... Nonsense, it would be monstrous!...”
It seemed to him as though a malevolent genius had been trying, for four days past, to direct events in such a way that he, Philippe, was under the terrible necessity of accusing Suzanne.
“No, a thousand times no!” he repeated, angrily. “There is no power that can compel me.... Say that I spent the night walking about, or sleeping by the roadside. Say what you please.... But leave me free in my actions and my words.”
“In that case,” said the under-secretary of state, gathering up his papers, “the enquiry is at an end and M. Morestal’s evidence will serve as the basis on which I shall form my conclusions.”
“Very well,” retorted Philippe, beside himself.
He began to walk, almost to run, around the tent. He was like a wild animal seeking an outlet. Was he to throw up the work which he had undertaken? Was he, the frail obstacle self-set against the torrent, to be vanquished in his turn? Oh, how gladly he would have given his own life! He became aware of this, deep down in his inner consciousness. And he understood, as it were physically, the sacrifice of those who go to their death smiling, when a great idea uplifts them.
But in what respect would death have settled things?
He must either speak — and speak against Suzanne: a torture infinitely more exquisite than death — or else resign himself. It was this or that: there was no alternative.
He walked to and fro, as though tormented by the fire that devoured him. Was he to fling himself on his knees before Marthe and ask for mercy or to fold his hands before Le Corbier? He did not know. His brain was bursting. And he had the harrowing feeling that all his efforts were in vain and turning against himself.
He stopped and said:
“Monsieur le ministre, your opinion alone matters; and I will attempt impossibilities to make that opinion agree with the real facts. I am prepared for anything, monsieur le ministre ... on one condition, however, that our interview is private. To you and to you alone I can ...”
Once more, he found Marthe facing him, Marthe, the unforeseen enemy, who seemed to hold him gripped as a prey and who, fierce and pitiless and alive to the least attempt at stratagem, would never let him go.
“I have the right to be there!” she cried. “You must explain yourself in my presence! Your word will have no value unless I am there.... If not, I shall challenge it as a fresh lie. Monsieur le ministre, I put you on your guard against a trick....”
Le Corbier gave a sign of approval and, addressing Philippe:
“What is the use of a private interview, monsieur? Whatever credit I may attach to your confidential statements, if I am to believe them frankly I must have a check with which only your wife and your father can supply me. Unfortunately, after all your contradictory versions, I am entitled to doubt ...”
“Monsieur le ministre,” Philippe hinted, “there are sometimes circumstances ... facts that cannot be revealed ... secrets of such a nature ...”
“You lie! You lie!” cried Marthe, maddened by the admission. “It is not true. A woman: is that what you mean? No ... no.... Ah, Philippe, I beseech you!... Monsieur le ministre, I swear to you that he is lying ... I swear it to you.... He is keeping up his falsehood to the bitter end. He betray me! He love another woman! You’re lying, Philippe, are you not? Oh, hush, hush!”
Suddenly, Philippe felt a hand wringing his arm. Turning round, he saw Commissary Jorancé, with a white, threatening face, and heard him say, in a dull voice:
“What did you mean to suggest? Whom are you talking about? Oh, I’ll make you answer, trust me!”
Philippe stared at him in stupefaction. And he also stared at Marthe’s distorted features. And he was surprised, for he did not think that he had spoken words that could arouse their suspicions.
“But you are all mad!” he said. “Come, M. Jorancé.... Come, Marthe.... What’s the matter? I don’t know what you can have understood.... Perhaps it’s my fault ... I am so tired!”
“Whom have you been talking about?” repeated Jorancé, shaking with rage.
“Confess! Confess!” demanded Marthe, pressing him hard with all her jealous hatred.
And, behind her, Philippe saw old Morestal, huddled in his chair, as though unable to recover from the blows that had struck him. That was Philippe’s first victim. Was he to offer up two more? He started:
“Enough! Enough!... This is all hateful.... There is a terrible misunderstanding between us.... And all that I say only makes it worse.... We will have an explanation later, I promise you, M. Jorancé.... You also, Marthe, I swear it.... And you will realize your mistake. But let us be silent now, please.... We have tortured one another long enough.”
He spoke in so resolute a voice that Jorancé stood undecided and Marthe herself was shaken. Was he stating the truth? Was it simply a misunderstanding that divided them?
Le Corbier guessed the tragedy and, attacking Philippe in his turn, said:
“So, monsieur, I must look for no enlightenment on the point to which you drew my attention? And it is you yourself, is it not, who, by your definite attitude, close the discussion?”
“Yes,” replied Philippe, firmly.
“No,” protested Marthe, returning to the charge with indefatigable vigour. “No, it is not finished, monsieur le ministre; it cannot finish like this. My husband, whether he meant to or not, has uttered words which we have all interpreted in the same sense. If there is a misunderstanding, let it be dispelled now. And there is only one person who can do so. That person is here. I ask to have that person called in.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” stammered Philippe.
“Yes, you do, Philippe. You know to whom I refer and all the proofs that give me the right to ...”
“Silence, Marthe,” commanded Philippe, beside himself.
“Then confess. If not, I swear that ...”
The sight of M. Jorancé stayed her threat. Unaware of Suzanne’s presence at the Butte-aux-Loups, Jorancé had ceased to understand; and his suspicions, aroused by Philippe’s imprudence, had become gradually allayed. At the last moment, when on the point of putting her irreparable accusation into words, Marthe hesitated. Her hatred was vanquished by the sight of the father’s grief.
Moreover, just then, a diversion occurred to bring about an armistice, as it were, in the midst of the implacable conflict. Le Corbier had risen hurriedly from his seat and drawn back the tent-fly. A quick step was heard outside.
“Ah, there you are, Trébons!”
And he almost ran to fetch the young man in and plied him with questions:
“Did you speak to the prime minister? What did he say?”
M. de Trébons entered the tent. But, on catching sight of the Morestal family, he turned back:
“Monsieur le ministre, I think it would be better ...”
“No, no, Trébons. No one here is in the way ... on the contrary.... Come, what is it? Bad news?”
“Very bad news, monsieur le ministre. The French embassy in Berlin has been burnt down....”
“Oh!” said Le Corbier. “Wasn’t it guarded?”
“Yes, but the troops were overborne by the crowd.”
“Next?”
“Germany is mobilizing all her frontier army-corps.”
“But in Paris? What about Paris?”
“Nothing but riots.... The boulevards are overrun.... At this moment, the municipal guards are charging the mob to clear the approaches to the Palais-Bourbon.”
“But what do they want, when all is said?”
“War.”
The word rang out like a death-knell. After a few seconds, Le Corbier asked:
“Is that all?”
“The prime minister is anxiously awaiting your return. ‘Don’t let him lose a minute,’ he said. ‘His report might spell safety. It is my last shot. If it misses fire, I can’t answer for what will happen.’ And he added, ‘And, even then, it may be too late.’”
The silence was really excruciating around the table, in the little space inside that tent in which the cruelest of tragedies was hurling against one another a group of noble souls united by the most loyal affection. Each of them forgot his private suffering and thought only of the horror that loomed ahead. The sinister word was echoed in all their hearts.
Le Corbier gave a gesture of despair:
“His last shot! Yes, if my report gave him an opportunity of retreating! But ...”
He watched old Morestal, as though he were still expecting a sudden retractation. What was the good? Supposing he took it upon himself to extenuate the old man’s statements, Morestal was the sort of uncompromising man who would give him the lie in public. And then the government would find itself in an unenviable plight indeed!
“Well,” he said, “let fate take its course! We have done our very utmost. My dear Trébons, is the motor at the cross-roads?”
“Yes, monsieur le ministre.”
“Please collect the papers; we will go. We have an hour to reach the station. It’s more than we want.”
He picked up his hat, his coat, took a few steps to and fro and stopped in front of Philippe. Philippe, he half thought, had perhaps not done his utmost. Philippe perhaps had still one stage to travel. But how was Le C
orbier to find out? How was he to fathom that mysterious soul and read its insoluble riddle? Le Corbier knew those men endowed with the missionary spirit and capable, in furtherance of their cause, of admirable devotion, of almost superhuman sacrifice, but also of hypocrisy, of craft, sometimes of crime. What was this Philippe Morestal’s evidence worth? What part exactly was he playing? Had he deliberately and falsely given rise to the suspicion of some amorous meeting? Or was he really carrying his heroism to the point of telling the truth?
Slowly, thoughtfully, as though in obedience to a new hope, Le Corbier went back to his seat, flung his motor-coat on the table, sat down and, addressing M. de Trébons:
“One second more.... Leave the papers. And pray bring Mlle. Suzanne Jorancé here.”
M. de Trébons left the tent.
“Is Suzanne there?” asked Jorancé, in an anxious voice. “Was she there just now?...”
He received no reply; and he vainly scrutinized the faces, one after the other, of those whom he was questioning. During the three or four minutes that elapsed, none of the actors in the drama made the least movement. Morestal remained seated, with his head hanging on his chest. Marthe kept her eyes fixed on the opening of the tent. As for Philippe, he awaited this additional blow with anguish in his heart. The massacre was not ended. Destiny ordained that, following upon his father, upon his wife, upon Jorancé, he himself should sacrifice this fourth victim.
Le Corbier, who was watching him, was overcome with an involuntary feeling of compassion, of sympathy almost. At that moment, Philippe’s sincerity seemed to him absolute and he felt inclined to abandon the test. But distrust carried the day. Absurd though the supposition might be, he had an impression that this man was capable of falsely accusing the girl in the presence of his wife, of his father and of Jorancé himself. With Suzanne present, falsehood became impossible. The test was a cruel one, but, however it was decided, it carried with it the unimpeachable certainty without which Le Corbier was unwilling to close his enquiry.
Philippe shook all over. Marthe and Jorancé rose from their seats. The tent-fly was drawn aside. Suzanne entered.
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 340
