MARTHE ASKS A QUESTION
The conflict was immediate. Between Morestal and Philippe, the duel set
in at once. The events of the previous days had cleared the way for it:
at the first word, they stood up to each other like irreconcilable
adversaries, the father spirited and aggressive, the son anxious and
sad, but inflexible.
Le Corbier at once foresaw a scene. He went out of the tent, ordered the
sentry to stand away, made sure that the group of Germans could not hear
the sound of the raised voices. Then, after carefully closing the fly,
he returned to his place.
"You are mad! You are mad!" said Morestal, who had come up to his son.
"How dare you?"
And Jorancé joined in:
"Come, come, Philippe ... this is not serious.... You are not going to
back out, to withdraw...."
Le Corbier silenced them and, addressing Philippe:
"Explain yourself, monsieur," he said. "I do not understand."
Philippe looked at his father again and, slowly, in a voice which he
strove to render firm as he spoke, answered:
"I say, monsieur le ministre, that certain particulars in my evidence
are not accurate and that it is my duty to correct them."
"Speak, monsieur," said the under-secretary, with some harshness.
Philippe did not hesitate. Facing old Morestal, who was quivering with
indignation, he began, as though he were in a hurry to get it over:
"First of all, Private Baufeld did not say things that were quite as
clear as those which I repeated. The words used were obscure and
incoherent."
"What! Why, your declarations are precise...."
"Monsieur le ministre, when I gave my evidence for the first time before
the examining-magistrate, I was under the shock of my father's arrest. I
was under his influence. It seemed to me that the incident would have no
consequences if the arrest had been effected on German territory; and,
when relating Private Baufeld's last words, in spite of myself, without
knowing it, I interpreted them in the sense of my own wishes. Later on,
I understood my mistake. I am now repairing it."
He stopped. The under-secretary turned over his papers, no doubt read
through Philippe's evidence and asked:
"As far as concerns Private Baufeld, have you nothing to add?"
Philippe's legs seemed on the point of giving way beneath him, so much
so that Le Corbier asked him to sit down.
He obeyed and, mastering himself, said:
"Yes, I have. I have a revelation to make in this respect which is very
painful to me. My father evidently attached no importance to it; but it
seems to me ..."
"What do you mean?" cried Morestal.
"Oh, father, I beseech you!" entreated Philippe, folding his hands
together. "We are not here to quarrel, nor to judge each other, but to
do our duty. Mine is horrible. Do not discourage me. You shall condemn
me afterwards, if you see cause."
"I condemn you as it is, Philippe."
Le Corbier made an imperious gesture and repeated, in a yet more
peremptory tone:
"Speak, M. Philippe Morestal."
Philippe said, bringing the words out very quickly:
"Monsieur le ministre, Private Baufeld had relations on this side of the
frontier. His desertion was prepared, backed up. He knew the safe road
which he was to take."
"Through whom did he know it?"
Philippe lowered his head and, with half-closed eyes, whispered:
"Through my father!"
"That's not true!" shouted old Morestal, purple with rage. "That's not
true! I prepare ... I!..."
"Here is the paper which I found in Private Baufeld's pocket," said
Philippe, handing a sheet of note-paper to Le Corbier. "It gives a sort
of plan of escape, the road which the fugitive is to follow, the exact
spot at which he is to cross the frontier so as to avoid the watchers."
"What are you saying? What are you daring to say? A correspondence
between me and that wretch!"
"The two words, 'Albern Path,' are in your hand-writing, father, and it
was through the Albern Path that the deserter entered France. The sheet
is a sheet of your own note-paper."
Morestal gave a bound:
"And you took it from the waste-paper basket, where it lay torn and
crumpled! You did a thing like that, you, my son! You had the infamy
..."
"Oh, father!"
"Then what? Answer!"
"Private Baufeld gave it me before his death."
Morestal was standing opposite Philippe, with his arms crossed over his
chest, and, so far from defending himself against his son's accusations,
seemed rather to be addressing a culprit.
And Philippe looked at him with eyes of anguish. At each blow that he
struck, at each sentence that he uttered, he detected the mark of a
wound on his father's face. A vein swelling on the old man's temples
distressed him beyond measure. He was terrified to see streaks of blood
mingle with the whites of his eyes. And he feared, at every moment, that
his father would fall like a tree which the axe has struck to the heart.
The under-secretary, after examining the sheet of paper which Philippe
had given him, resumed:
"In any case, M. Morestal, these lines were written by you?"
"Yes, monsieur le ministre. I have already stated what the man
Dourlowski tried to get out of me and the answer which I gave him."
"Was it the first time that the fellow made the attempt?..."
"The first time," said Morestal, after an imperceptible hesitation.
"Then this paper?... These lines?..."
"Those lines were written by me in the course of the conversation. Upon
reflection, I threw away the paper. I see now that Dourlowski must have
picked it up behind my back and used it in order to carry out his plan.
If the police had discovered it on the deserter, it would have been a
proof of my guilt. At least, they would have interpreted it in that way
... as my son does. I hope, monsieur le ministre, that that
interpretation is not yours."
Le Corbier sat thinking for a moment or two, consulted the documents and
said:
"The two governments have agreed to leave outside the discussion all
that concerns Private Baufeld's desertion, the part played by the man
Dourlowski and the accusation of complicity made against the French
commissary and against yourself, M. Morestal. These are legal questions
which concern the German courts. The only purpose for which I have been
delegated is to ascertain whether or not the arrest took place on French
territory. My instructions are extremely limited. I cannot go beyond
them. I will ask you, therefore, M. Philippe Morestal, to tell me, or
rather to confirm to me, what you know on this subject."
"I know nothing."
A moment of stupefaction followed. Morestal, utterly bewildered, did not
even think of protesting. He evidently looked upon his son as mad.
"You know nothing?" said the under-secretary, who did not yet clearly
see Philippe's object. "All the same, you have declared that you heard
M. Jorancé's exclamation, 'We are in France!... They are arresting the
French commissary!...'"
"I did not hear it."
"What! What! But you were not two hundred yards away...."
"I was nowhere near. I left my father at the Carrefour du Grand-Chêne
and I neither saw nor heard what happened after we had parted."
"Then why did you state the contrary, monsieur?"
"I repeat, monsieur le ministre, when my father returned, I at once
understood the importance of the first words which we should speak in
the presence of the examining-magistrate. I thought that, by supporting
my father's story, I should be helping to prevent trouble. To-day, in
the face of the inexorable facts, I am reverting to the pure and simple
truth."
His replies were clear and unhesitating. There was no doubt that he was
following a line of conduct which he had marked out in advance and from
which nothing would make him swerve.
Morestal and Jorancé listened to him in dismay.
Marthe sat silent and motionless, with her eyes glued to her husband's.
Le Corbier concluded:
"You mean to say that you will not accept your share of the
responsibility?"
"I accept the responsibility for all that I have done."
"But you withdraw from the case?"
"In so far as I am concerned, yes."
"Then I must cancel your evidence and rely upon the unshaken testimony
of M. Morestal: is that it?"
Philippe was silent.
"Eh, what?" cried Morestal. "You don't answer?"
There was a sort of entreaty in the old man's voice, a desperate appeal
to Philippe's better feelings. His anger almost fell, so great was his
unhappiness at seeing his son, his boy, a prey to this madness.
"You mean that, don't you?" he resumed, gently. "You mean that monsieur
le ministre can and must abide by my declarations?"
"No," said Philippe, stubbornly.
Morestal started:
"No? But why? What reason have you for answering like that? Why should
you?"
"Because, father, though the nature of your declarations has not varied,
your attitude, during the last three days, proves that you are
experiencing a certain reticence, a certain hesitation."
"What makes you say that?" asked Morestal, trembling all over, but as
yet retaining his self-control.
"Your certainty is not absolute."
"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 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.