"Then do not lose a moment, my dear Trebons. You will find my car at the bottom of the hill. Go to Saint-Elophe, telephone to the prime minister and communicate the German reply to him officially. It is urgent. There may be immediate measures to be taken ... with regard to the frontier." He said these last words in a low voice, with his eyes fixed on the two Morestals, went out with M. de Trebons and accompanied him as far as the French camp. A long silence followed upon his disappearance. Philippe, clenching his fists, blurted out: "It's terrible ... it's terrible...." And turning to his father: "You are quite sure, I suppose, of what you are swearing?... Of the exact place?..." Morestal shrugged his shoulders. Philippe insisted: "It was at night.... You may have made a mistake...." "No, no, I tell you, no," growled Morestal, angrily. "I know what I am talking about. You'll end by annoying me." Marthe tried to interfere: "Come, Philippe.... Your father is accustomed to ..." But Philippe caught her by the arm and, roughly: "Hold your tongue ... I won't allow it.... What do you know?... What are you meddling for?" He broke off suddenly, as though ashamed of his anger, and, in a fit of weakness and uncertainty, murmured an apology: "I beg your pardon, Marthe.... You too, father, forgive me.... Please forgive me.... There are situations in which we are bound to pardon one another for all the pain that we can give one another." Judging by the contraction of his features, one would have thought that he was on the verge of crying, like a child trying to restrain its tears and failing in the effort. Morestal stared at him in amazement. His wife looked at him aslant and felt fear rising within her, as at the approach of a great calamity. But the tent opened once more. M. Le Corbier entered. Special Commissary Jorance, who had been brought to the French camp by the German gendarmes, was with him. Jorance simply nodded to the Morestals and asked: "Suzanne?" "She is well," said Marthe. Meanwhile, Le Corbier had sat down and was turning over the papers. With his three-cornered face, ending in a short, peaked beard, his clean-shaven upper-lip, his sallow complexion and his black clothes, he wore the solemn mien of a Protestant divine. People said of him that, in the days of the Revolution, he would have been Robespierre or Saint-Just. His eyes, which expressed sympathy and almost affection, belied the suggestion. In reality, he was a conscientious man, who owed the gravity of his appearance to an excessive sense of duty. He closed the bundles of papers and sat thinking for some time. His lips formed silent syllables. He was obviously composing his speech. And he spoke as follows, in a confidential and friendly tone which was infinitely perturbing: