"There is something soft and peaceful about the air to-day. That's a good sign. It will influence the people who are conducting the enquiry. For everything depends upon their humour, their impression, the state of their nerves, does it not, Philippe?" "Yes," he said, "everything depends on them." She continued: "I don't think that they will ask you any questions. Your evidence is of such little importance. You see, the papers hardly mention it.... Except, of course, in so far as Dourlowski is concerned.... As for him, they haven't found him yet...." Philippe did not reply. Had he as much as heard? With short movements of his stick, he was striking the heads off the flowers that lined the road: harebells, wild thyme, gentians, angelica. Marthe remembered that this was a trick which he used to condemn in his sons. Before coming to the pass, the road narrowed into a path that wound through the woods, clinging to the roots of the fir-trees. They climbed it one behind the other. Marthe was in front of Philippe and Suzanne. Half-way up, the path made a sudden bend. When Marthe was out of sight, Philippe felt Suzanne's hand squeeze his and hold him back. He stopped. She nimbly pulled herself up to him: "Philippe, you are sad.... It's not about me, is it?" "No," he confessed, frankly. "I knew it," she said, without bitterness. "So much has happened these last three days!... I no longer count with you." He made no attempt at protest, for it was true. He thought of her sometimes, but in a casual way, as of a woman whom one loves, whom one covets, but whom one has no time to think about. He did not even analyze his feelings. They were mixed up with all the other troubles that overwhelmed him. "I shall never forget you, Suzanne," he said. "I know, Philippe. And I neither, I shall never forget you.... Only, I wanted to tell you this, which will give you a little happiness: Philippe, I give you my promise that I will face the life before me ... that I will make a fresh start.... What I told you is happening within me.... I have more courage now that I ... now that I have that memory to support me.... You have given me happiness enough to last me all my life.... I shall be what I should not have been ... an honest woman.... I swear it, Philippe ... and a good wife...." He understood that she meant to be married and he suffered at the thought. But he said to her, gently, after looking at her lips, her bare neck, her whole charming, fragrant and tantalizing person: "Thank you, Suzanne.... It is the best proof of your love.... I thank you." She went on to say to him: "And then, Philippe, you see, I don't want to give my father pain.... Any one can feel that he has been very unhappy.... And the reason why I was afraid, the other morning, that Marthe might discover the truth ... was because of him." "You need not fear, Suzanne."