"And you think, monsieur le ministre, that your report, thus modified, may have a decisive influence in Paris?" "I say so, positively. The prime minister has allowed me to look into his secret thoughts. Moreover, I know what he is capable of doing. If the conclusions of my report give him a little latitude, he will ring up the German embassy and mount the tribune in order to bring the chamber, to bring the country face to face with the facts as they are. The cabinet will fall amid a general outcry, there will be a few riots, but we shall have peace ... and peace, as you, monsieur, were saying a moment ago, peace without dishonour, at the price of an infinitesimal sacrifice of self-esteem, which will make France greater than ever." "Yes ... yes ..." said Philippe. "But, if it should be too late? If it should no longer be possible to prevent anything?" "That," said Le Corbier, "is a thing which we cannot foretell.... It may, as a matter of fact, be too late...." This was the hardest thought of all for Philippe. Deep hollows appeared in his cheeks. The minutes seemed to age him like long years of sickness. The sight of him suggested the faces of the dying martyrs in certain primitive pictures. Nothing short of physical pain can thus convulse the features of a man's countenance. And he really suffered as much as if he were being stretched on the rack and burnt with red-hot pincers. Nevertheless, he felt that his mind remained lucid, as must be that of the martyrs undergoing torture, and he clearly understood that, in consequence of a series of inexorable facts, he had, for a few moments--but on the most terrible conditions!--the power of perhaps ... of perhaps saving the world from the great scourge of war. He stiffened himself and, livid in the face, said: "Monsieur le ministre, what my wife suspected, what you have already guessed, is the exact truth. On Monday night, while the arrest was taking place and while the two captives were being carried to Germany, I was with Suzanne Jorance." It was as though Jorance, standing behind him, had been waiting for the accusation as for an attack that must be parried without delay: "Suzanne! My daughter!" he cried, seizing Philippe by the collar of his jacket. "What are you saying, you villain? How dare you?" Marthe had not stirred, remained as though stunned. Old Morestal protested indignantly. Philippe whispered: "I am saying what happened." "You lie! You lie!" roared Jorance. "My daughter, the purest, the most honest girl in the world! Why don't you confess that you lie?... Confess it!... Confess it!..." The poor man was choking. The words were caught short in his throat. His whole frame seemed to quiver; and his eyes were filled with gleams of hatred and murderous longings and anger and, above all, pain, infinite, pitiless, human pain. And he entreated and commanded by turns: