The Frontier Part 34

"How do you know? If you make an accusation, you must prove it."

"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 a.s.serting."

"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 hara.s.sed 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, pa.s.sionately, "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 n.o.blest 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 sh.o.r.es 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. Jorance'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 att.i.tude, 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, impa.s.sively. 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 ent.i.tled, _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 ent.i.tled _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 circ.u.mstances 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: