"Monsieur le ministre," replied Marthe, "my husband is the author of the pamphlet entitled, _Peace before All_!" The disclosure created a sort of sensation. Le Corbier gave a start. The commissary wore an indignant air. As for old Morestal, he tried to stand up, staggered and at once fell back in his seat. All his strength had left him. His anger gave way before an immense despair. He could not have suffered more had he heard that Philippe was dead. And Marthe repeated: "My husband is the author of the pamphlet entitled _Peace before All_! For the sake of his opinions, for the sake of consistency with the profound, the exalted faith to which his views give rise within him, my husband is capable ..." Le Corbier suggested: "Of going to the length of a lie?" "Yes," she said. "False evidence can only appear insignificant to him beside the great catastrophe which he wishes to avert; and his conscience alone dictates his duty to him. Is it true, Philippe?" He replied, gravely: "Certainly. In the circumstances in which we find ourselves placed, when two nations are at daggers drawn over a wretched question of self-esteem, I should not shrink from a lie that appears to me a duty. But I have no need to resort to that expedient. I have truth itself on my side. I was not there." "Then where were you?" repeated Marthe. The little sentence rang out again, pitilessly. But, this time, Marthe uttered it in a more hostile tone and with a gesture that underlined all its importance. And she at once added, plying him with questions: "You did not come in until eight o'clock in the morning. Your bed was not undone. Consequently, you had not slept at the Old Mill. Where did you spend the night?" "I was looking for my father." "You did not know that your father had been carried off until Private Baufeld told you, at five o'clock in the morning. Consequently, it was five o'clock in the morning before you began to look for your father." "Yes." "And, at that moment, you had not yet returned to the Old Mill, because, I repeat, your bed was not undone." "No." "And where did you come from? What were you doing from eleven o'clock in the evening, when you left your father, until five o'clock in the morning, when you heard of his capture?" The cross-examination, with its unimpeachable logic, left Philippe no loop-hole for escape. He felt that he was lost. For a moment, he was on the point of throwing up the game and exclaiming: "Well, yes, I was there. I heard everything. My father is right. We must accept his word...." This was a display of weakness which a man like Philippe was bound and fated to resist. On the other hand, how could he betray Suzanne? He crossed his arms over his chest and muttered: "I have nothing to say." Marthe, suddenly dropping her accusing tone and shaking with anguish, rushed up to him and cried: