Marthe, who had kept her room since the day before, but remained attentive to all that was happening at the Old Mill, had, through her open door and window, heard and seen the hubbub, the fuss made by the servants, all the mad fluster of a house that feels itself threatened by an approaching cyclone.

She had overcome her fit of anger and hatred, was now mistress of herself and was no longer frightened of a possible meeting between Philippe and Suzanne. Another torment obsessed her. What did her husband mean to do? Brought face to face with an eventuality which he had often contemplated, what line of conduct would he pursue?

And it was he that she was watching. Before she went away, she wished to know. She overheard his first conversation with Victor. She saw his meeting with Captain Daspry from a distance. She saw him go to his room. She saw him come out again. And, in spite of herself, although urged by a very definite feeling, she stood up before him like an obstacle:

"Where are you going?" she asked.

Philippe did not lose countenance. He replied:

"What interest can that have for you?"

"Come," she said, "we have to speak to each other.... Come in here."

She took him into her room, shut the door and repeated, in a masterful tone:

"Where are you going, Philippe?"

He replied, with the same decision:

"I am going away."

"There is no carriage."

"I shall walk."

"Where to?"

"To Noirmont."

"To take which train?"

"The train to Paris."

"That's not true," she said, vehemently. "You are not going to Paris. You are going to Langoux, to take the train to Belfort."

"Just so, but I shall be in Paris to-morrow morning."

"That's not true! You do not mean to stop at Belfort. You will go on to BÂle, to Switzerland. And, if you go to Switzerland, it will not be for a day, it will be for months ... for your life!"

"And what then?"

"You intend to desert, Philippe."

He did not speak. And his silence dumbfoundered her. Violent as was the certainty that filled and angered her, Marthe was stupefied when he made no protest.

She stammered:

"Is it possible? You really intend to desert?"

Philippe grew irritable:

"Well, what has it to do with you? You had a letter from me yesterday, offering you an explanation. You have not even troubled to reply! Very well! I have done you an irreparable wrong. Our whole married life is shattered by my fault. Your attitude up to the present shows me that you never mean to forgive me.... Then what right have you to call me to account for what I do?"

She repeated, in a low voice, with fixed eyes:

"You intend to desert...."

"Yes."

"Is it really credible? I knew your ideas against war ... all the ideas in your books ... which agree with my own.... But I never thought of this.... You never spoke to me of it.... And then, no ... I could never have believed it...."

"You will have to believe it, for all that, Marthe."

He turned to the door. Once again she stood up in front of him.

"Let me pass," he said.

"No."

"You are mad!"

"Listen to me ... Philippe...."

"I refuse to listen. This is not the time for quarrelling. I have made up my mind to go. I will go. It is not a rash impulse. It is a decision taken silently and calmly. Let me pass."

He tried to clear the door. She pushed him back, suddenly seized with an energy which became all the fiercer as she felt her husband to be more inflexible. She had only a few minutes; and that was what frightened her. In those few minutes, by means of phrases, poor phrases flung out at random, she had to win the battle and to win it against a foe with whose mettle and obstinacy she was well acquainted.

"Let me pass," he repeated.

"Well, then, no, no, no!" she cried. "You shall not desert! No, you shall not do that infamous thing! There are things that one can't do.... This thing, Philippe, is monstrous!... Listen, Philippe, listen while I tell you...."

She went up to him and, under her breath:

"Listen, Philippe ... listen to this confession.... Philippe, you know what you did on Sunday, your cruelty to your father, to Suzanne, to all of us: well, yes, I understood it.... I suffered the pangs of death, I suffered more than any of the others.... Each word that you spoke burnt into me like fire.... But, all the same, Philippe, I understood.... You had to sacrifice us to the cause of peace. It was your right, it was your duty to victimize us all in order that you might save a whole nation.... But what you now propose to do.... Oh, the shame of it!... Listen, if you did that ... I should think of you as one thinks of ... I don't know what ... as one thinks of the most contemptible, the most revolting ..."

Shrugging his shoulders impatiently, he interrupted her:

"I can't help it if you do not understand. It is my right ... and my duty also...."

"Your duty is to join your regiment, now that war is declared, and to fight, yes, to fight for France, like every other Frenchman ... like the first peasant that comes along, who may tremble with all his poor human flesh, it is true, and whose heart sinks within him and whose stomach turns cold, but who believes that his duty lies in being there ... and who goes ahead, come what may! March on, as he does, Philippe! I have accepted all your opinions, I have shared them and backed them.... If there is to be an end of our union, at least let me address this last entreaty to you: join your regiment!... Your place is over there...."

"My place is anywhere except where men commit the odious act of killing," exclaimed Philippe, who had listened to her in spite of himself and who now suddenly collected himself. "My place is with my friends. They trust me and I trust them. They are the men whom I must join."

"Where? In Paris?"

"No. We swore, at the first signal, to meet at Zurich. From there, we shall issue a manifesto calling upon all the thinkers and all the men of independent views in Germany and France."

"But no one will answer your appeal!"

"Never mind! The appeal will have gone forth. The world will have heard the protest of a few free men, professors like myself, tutors, writers, men who reflect, men who act in accordance with their convictions, and not like animals led to the slaughter."

"You must defend your country," said Marthe, seeking to gain time, in the hope that something would come to her assistance.

"I must defend my ideas!" declared Philippe. "If my country chooses to commit an act of folly, that is no reason why I should follow her. What nonsense it is, these two great nations, the most civilized in the world, going to war because they can't agree about the arrest of a petty official, or because one of them wants to eat up Morocco and the other is incensed at not being invited to the banquet! And, for that, they are going to fly at each other's throats, like wild beasts! To scatter mourning and misery on every side! No, I refuse to take part in it! These hands, Marthe, these hands shall not kill! I have brothers in Germany as well as France. I have no enmity against them. I will not kill them."

She pretended to listen to his arguments with attention, knowing that, in this way, she would detain him a little longer. And she said:

"Ah, your German brothers, whether they feel enmity or not, you may be sure that they will march against France! Is not your love for her the greater?"

"Yes, yes, I love her, but just for the very reason that she is the most generous and noble of countries, that in her alone the idea of revolt against the law of blood and war can take root and sprout and blossom."

"You will be treated as a coward."

"To-day, perhaps ... but, in ten years, in twenty years, we shall be treated as heroes. Our names will be quoted as the names of the benefactors of humanity. And it will be France again that shall have had that honour ... through us! Through me!"

"But your name will be reviled during your lifetime."

"Reviled by those whom I despise, by those who have the cast of mind of that captain—though he's one of the best of them—who laughs and jokes when he is sent to certain death, he and his company."

Marthe answered indignantly:

"It's the laughter of a Frenchman, Philippe, of a Frenchman hiding his anguish under a little light chaff. A glorious laughter, which forms the pride of our race!"

"One does not laugh in the presence of the death of others."

"Yes, Philippe, when it is to hide the danger from them and to keep all the horror and all the terror for one's self alone.... Listen, Philippe!..."

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!"

He took her by the shoulders and tried to push her away. And, when Marthe resisted, he jostled her, exasperated by the fear of the unforeseen obstacle that might spring up, the arrival of his mother, perhaps the apparition of old Morestal himself.

Marthe weakened. He at once seized her wrist and pulled at the door. But, with one last effort, she thrust back her husband and, panting, in despair:

"One word! One word more!" she implored. "Listen, Philippe, don't do this thing.... And, if you do not do it, well, I think I could.... Oh, it is horrible to coerce me like this!... Still, I won't have you go.... Listen, Philippe. You know my pride, the bitterness of my feelings and all that I have suffered, all that I am suffering because of Suzanne. Well, I will forget everything. I offer not only to forgive, but to forget. Never a single word shall remind you of the past ... never an allusion ... I swear it! But don't desert, Philippe, I entreat you, don't do that!"

She hung on to his clothes and pressed herself against him, stammering:

"No, don't do that.... Do not inflict that disgrace upon your children! The sons of a deserter!... Oh, I entreat you, Philippe, stay! We will go away together ... and we will begin life again as it was before...."

She dragged herself at his feet, humble and supplicating, and she received the terrible impression that her words were of no avail. She was encountering a rival idea, against which all her strength was shattered. Philippe did not hear her. No feeling of pity even turned him towards her.

Calmly, with an irresistible movement, he clasped Marthe's wrists, gathered them in one of his hands, opened the door with the other and, flinging his wife from him, fled.

Marthe was seized with a feeling akin to despair. However, the bag was still there and she believed that he would come back to fetch it. Then, realizing her mistake, she suddenly rose and started to run:

"Philippe! Philippe!" she cried.

Like him, she was thinking of some outside interference, of old Morestal, whom the outcries might attract and whom Philippe would find on his path.

"Philippe! Philippe!"

She became scared, not knowing where to look for him. There was nobody in the garden. She returned to the drawing-room, for she seemed to hear a sound of voices. And in fact she saw a sergeant and a private soldier hurriedly crossing the terrace, with the gardener's son leading the way.

"Follow me!" the brat commanded. "We'll go up to the roof.... You can see the whole valley from there.... Ah, the telescope!..."

He caught up the instrument as he passed.

Marthe rushed at them:

"What's happening?"

"Impossible to hold out over there," said the sergeant. "There are too many of them.... We're falling back...."

"But, in that case, they will be coming?"

"Yes, yes, they're coming, right enough!..."

Marthe went out on the terrace. A swarm of soldiers came running up the staircase.

She saw Philippe in a corner. He was speaking to the men:

"Are they coming?"

"Yes."

"Have they crossed the frontier?"

"No, not yet."

He turned to his wife and said to her, as a piece of good news:

"They have not crossed the frontier yet."

And he went to meet another group of soldiers.

Then Marthe believed that fate had sent her the aid for which she was praying. She could now do nothing more but trust to events.