They went down the stairs of the terrace and scurried in the direction of the Etang-des-Moines. They had not gone fifty yards, when they were passed by Victor, who galloped by on horseback and shouted: "Go in, go in! What's the use? I shall be back again!" They went on nevertheless. But two roads offered: Suzanne wanted to take the one leading to the pass, on the left; Marthe, the one on the right, through the woods. They exchanged sharp words, blocking each other's way. Suddenly, Suzanne, without knowing what she was saying, flung herself into her friend's arms, blurting out: "I must tell you.... It is my duty.... Besides, it is all my fault...." Marthe, enraged and not understanding the words, which she was to remember so clearly later, spoke to her roughly: "You're quite mad to-day," she said. "Leave me alone, do." She darted into the woods and, in a few minutes, came to an abandoned quarry. The path went no further. She had a fit of fury, was on the verge of throwing herself on the ground and bursting into tears and then retraced her steps, for she thought she heard some one call. It was Suzanne, who had seen a man coming from the frontier on horseback and who had vainly tried to make herself heard. He was no doubt bringing news.... Panting and exhausted, they went back again. But there was no one at the Old Mill, no one but Mme. Morestal and Catherine, who were praying on the terrace. All the servants had gone off, without plan or purpose, in search of information; and the man on the horse, a peasant, had passed without looking up. Then they dropped on a bench near the balustrade and sat stupefied, worn out by the effort which they had just made; and horrible minutes followed. Each of the three women thought of her own special sorrow and each, besides, suffered the anguish of the unknown disaster that threatened all three of them. They dared not look at one another. They dared not speak, although the silence tortured them. The least sound represented a source of foolish hope or horrid dread; and, with their eyes fixed on the line of dark woods, they waited. Suddenly, they rose with a start. Catherine, who was keeping a look-out on the steps of the staircase, had sprung to her feet: "There's Henriot!" she cried. "Henriot?" echoed Mme. Morestal. "Yes, the gardener's boy: I can make him out from here." "Where? We haven't seen him come." "He must have taken a short cut.... He is coming up the stairs.... Quick, Henriot!... Hurry!... Do you know anything?" She pulled open the gate and a lad of fifteen or so, his face bathed in perspiration, appeared. He at once said: "There's a deserter been killed ... a German deserter."