etell.... 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 Jorance."

It was as though Jorance, 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 Jorance. "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.