The Frontier

"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 hear 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:

"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 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 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.