The Frontier Part 36

"But you are all mad!" he said. "Come, M. Jorance.... 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 Jorance, 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.

Jorance.... 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 Jorance 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 att.i.tude, 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. Jorance stayed her threat. Unaware of Suzanne's presence at the b.u.t.te-aux-Loups, Jorance 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, Trebons!"

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 Trebons 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, Trebons. No one here is in the way ... on the contrary....

Come, what is it? Bad news?"

"Very bad news, monsieur le ministre. The French emba.s.sy 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 munic.i.p.al 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 s.p.a.ce inside that tent in which the cruelest of tragedies was hurling against one another a group of n.o.ble 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 Trebons, 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 Corbier 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 Trebons:

"One second more.... Leave the papers. And pray bring Mlle. Suzanne Jorance here."

M. de Trebons left the tent.

"Is Suzanne there?" asked Jorance, 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 ma.s.sacre was not ended. Destiny ordained that, following upon his father, upon his wife, upon Jorance, he himself should sacrifice this fourth victim.