"No, not yet," said Philippe, who saw a way out and who was making a last effort to escape. "Presently.... I must absolutely tell you.... You and I start from a different point of view.... I have rather different ideas from yours ... and, as the occasion happens to present itself ..." "Impossible, my boy! They are waiting for us...." "You must hear me," cried Philippe, blocking the way. "I refuse to accept with a light heart a responsibility that is not in accordance with my present opinions; and that is why an explanation between us has become inevitable." Morestal looked at him with an air of amazement: "Your present opinions! Ideas different from mine! What's all this nonsense?" Philippe felt, even more clearly than on the day before, the violence of a conflict which a confession would provoke. But, this time, his resolve was taken. There were too many reasons urging him towards a breach which he considered necessary. With his mind and his whole frame palpitating with his tense will, he was about to utter the irrevocable words, when Marthe hurried into the room: "Don't keep your father, Philippe; the examining-magistrate is asking for him." "Ah!" said Morestal. "I am not sorry that you have come to release me, my dear Marthe. Your husband's crazy. He's been talking a string of nonsense these past ten minutes. What you want, my boy, is rest." Philippe made a slight movement. Marthe whispered: "Be quiet." And she said it in so imperious a tone that he was taken aback. Before leaving the room, Morestal walked to the window. Bugle-notes sounded in the distance and he leant out to hear them better. Marthe at once said to Philippe: "I came in on chance. I felt that you were seeking an explanation with your father." "Yes, I had to." "About your ideas, I suppose?" "Yes, I must." "Your father is ill.... It's his heart.... A fit of anger might prove fatal ... especially after last night. Not a word, Philippe." At that moment, Morestal closed the window. He passed in front of them and then, turning and placing his hand on his son's shoulder, he murmured, in accents of restrained ardour: "Do you hear the enemy's bugle, over there? Ah, Philippe, I don't want it to become a war-song!... But, all the same, if it should ... if it should!..." * * * At one o'clock on the afternoon of Tuesday the 2nd of September, Philippe, sitting opposite his father, before the pensive eyes of Marthe, before the anxious eyes of Suzanne, Philippe, after relating most minutely his conversation with the dying soldier, declared that he had heard at a distance the cries of protest uttered by Jorance, the special commissary. Having made the declaration, he signed it. CHAPTER IV THE ENQUIRIES