That morning, Morestal took his son to the Col du Diable and, bent in two, following the road to the Butte-aux-Loups step by step, examining each winding turn, noting a big root here and a long branch there, he reconstituted the plan of the attack. And he showed Philippe the trees against which he had brushed in his flight and the trees at the foot of which he and his friend had stood and defended themselves:
"It was there, Philippe, and nowhere else.... Do you see that little open space? That's where it was.... I have often come and smoked my pipe here, because of this little mound to sit upon.... That's the place!"
He sat down on the same mound and said no more, staring before him, while Philippe looked at him. Several times, he repeated, between his teeth:
"Yes, this is certainly the place.... How could I be mistaken?"
And, suddenly, he pressed his two fists to his temples and blurted out:
"Still, suppose I were mistaken! Suppose I had branched off more to the right ... and ..."
He interrupted himself, cast his eyes around him, rising to his feet:
"It's impossible! One can't make as big a blunder as that, short of being mad! How could I have? I was thinking of one thing only; I kept saying to myself, 'I must remain in France, I must keep to the left of the line.' And I did keep to it, hang it all! It is absolutely certain.... What then? Am I to deny the truth in order to please them?"
And Philippe, who had never ceased watching him, replied, within himself:
"Why not, father? What would that little falsehood signify, compared with the magnificent result that would be obtained? If you would tell a lie, father, or if only you would assert so fatal a truth less forcibly, France could give way without the least disgrace, since it is your evidence alone that compels her to make her demand! And, in this way, you would have saved your country...."