"

The sound of firing came from the distance, on the other side of the
house. For some seconds, there was an uninterrupted crackle of musketry;
then it came at rarer intervals; and, presently, there was no sound at
all.

Marthe whispered:

"The first shot fired in the war, Philippe.... They are fighting on the
frontier.... It's your country they are defending.... France is in
danger.... Oh, doesn't your heart quiver like the heart of a son? Don't
you feel the wounds they are giving her ... the wounds they intend to
give her?..."

He wore his attitude of suffering, keeping his arms crossed stiffly over
his chest and half-closing his eyes. He answered, sorrowfully:

"Yes, yes, I feel those wounds.... But why is she fighting? For what mad
love of glory? Is she not intoxicated with successes and conquests?
Remember our journey through Europe.... Wherever we went, we found
traces of her passage: cemeteries and charnel-houses to bear witness
that she was the great victress. Isn't that enough of conquests and
triumphs?"

"But, fool that you are," cried Marthe, "she is not trying to conquer!
She is defending herself! Picture this vision, for a moment: France
invaded once more ... France dismembered ... France wiped from the face
of the earth...."

"But no, no," he said, with a gesture of protest, "there is no question
of that!"

"Yes, there is, there is a question of that: it's a question of life or
death to her.... And you, you are deserting!"

Philippe did not stir. Marthe felt that he was, if not shaken, at least
anxious, uneasy. But, suddenly, he uncrossed his arms and, striking the
table with his fist:

"I must! I must! I promised to!... And I was right to promise! And I
will keep my oath! What you call deserting is fighting, but fighting the
real fight! I too am going to wage war, but it will be the war of
independence and brains; and my comrades in heroism are waiting for me.
There, Marthe, I won't listen to you any longer!"

She glued her back to the door, with her arms outstretched:

"And the children! The children whom you are abandoning!"

"You will send them to me later."

She raised her hand:

"Never, I swear it on their heads, never shall you set eyes on them
again! The sons of a deserter!... They will disown you!"

"They will love me, if they understand."

"I will teach them not to understand you."

"If they do not understand me, it is I who will disown them. So much the
worse for them!"