And Victor also bounded in: "Here's the master coming! There he is!" "Who? Who?" asked Mme. Morestal, hastening forward. "M. Morestal! There he is! We saw him at the end of the garden.... Look, over there, near the water-fall...." The old lady ran to one of the windows: "Yes! He has seen us! O God, is it possible?" Staggering with excitement, she leant heavily on Marthe's arm and dragged her to the staircase that led to the front hall and the steps. They had hardly disappeared when Suzanne flung herself upon Philippe: "Oh, please, Philippe ... please!" she implored. He did not understand at first: "What is it, Suzanne?" "Please, please be careful. Don't let Marthe suspect...." "Do you think ...?" "I thought so, for a second.... She gave me such a queer look.... Oh, it would be terrible!... Please, please ..." She left him quickly, but her words and the scared look in her eyes gave Philippe a real fright. Hitherto, he had felt towards Marthe only the embarrassment provoked by the annoyance of having to tell a lie. He now suddenly perceived the full gravity of the situation, the peril which threatened Suzanne and which might shatter the happiness of his own household. One blunder ... and everything was discovered. And this thought, instead of clearing his brain forthwith, merely increased his confusion. "I must save Suzanne," he repeated. "Above all, I must save Suzanne." But he felt that he had no more power over the events at hand than a man has over the approaching storm. And a dull fear arose within his breast. CHAPTER III FATHER AND SON Bare-headed, tangle-haired, his clothes torn, no collar, blood on his shirt, on his hands, on his face, blood everywhere, a wound in his neck, another on his lip, unrecognizable, horrible to look at, but magnificent in energy, heroic and triumphant: such was the appearance presented by old Morestal. He chortled: "Here!" he shouted. An enormous laugh rolled from under his moustache: "Morestal? Here!... Morestal, for the second time, a prisoner of the Teuton ... and, for the second time, free!" Philippe stared at him in dismay, as though at an apparition. "Well, sonny? Is that the way you welcome me home?" He caught hold of a napkin and wiped his face with a great, wide gesture. Then he drew his wife to him: "Kiss me, mother!... And you, Philippe! And you, Marthe!... And you too, my pretty Suzanne: once for myself and once for your father!... Don't cry, my child.... Daddy's all right.... They're coddling him like an emperor, over there ... until they let him go. And that's not far off. By Heaven, no! I hope the French government ..." He was talking like a drunken man, too fast and in an unsteady voice. His wife tried to make him sit down. He protested: "Rest? Quite unnecessary, mother. A Morestal never rests. My wounds? Scratches! What? The doctor? If he sets foot in this house, I'll chuck him out of the window!" "Still, you ought to take something...."