The Frontier by Maurice LeBlanc

The little sentence, so terrible in its conciseness, set up a clear issue between the two adversaries.

Carried away by the exuberance of their convictions, they had widened the discussion into a sort of oratorical joust in which each fought eagerly for the opinions which he held dear. And Le Corbier knew better than to interrupt a duel whence he had little doubt that some unexpected light would flash, at last, from amid the superfluous words.

Marthe's little sentence evoked that light. Le Corbier, from the beginning of the scene, had noticed the young woman's strange attitude, her silence, her fevered glances that seemed to probe Philippe Morestal's very soul. He understood the full value of the question from her accent. No more vain declamations and eloquent theories! It was no longer a matter of knowing which of the two, the father or the son, thought the more justly and served his country with the greater devotion. One thing alone carried weight; and Marthe had stated it in undeniable fashion.

Philippe stood dumbfoundered. In the course of his reflections, he had foreseen every demand, every supposition, every difficulty, in short, all the consequences of the action upon which he had resolved. But how could he have foreseen this one, not knowing that Marthe would be present at that last and greatest interview? Before Le Corbier, before his father, supposing this detail entered their heads, he could invent an excuse of some kind. But before Marthe? .

From that moment, he had the terrifying vision of the catastrophe that was preparing. A sweat covered his whole body. He ought to have faced the danger bravely and piled explanation on explanation at the risk of contradicting himself. As it was, he turned red and stammered. And, in so doing, he put himself out of court.

Morestal had resumed his seat. Le Corbier was waiting, impassively. Amid the great silence, Marthe, now quite pale, speaking in a slow voice, which let fall the syllables one by one, said:

"Monsieur le ministre, I accuse my husband of perjury and falsehood. It is now, when he withdraws his former evidence, that he is sinning against the truth, against a truth which he knows. yes, he knows it, that I declare. By all that he has told me; by all that I know, I swear that he never questioned his father's word. And I swear that he was present at the attack."

"Then," asked Le Corbier, "why does M. Philippe Morestal act as he is doing now?"

"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?"