"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: