"You lie! You lie!" cried Marthe, maddened by the admission. "It is not true. A woman: is that what you mean? No ... no.... Ah, Philippe, I beseech you!... Monsieur le ministre, I swear to you that he is lying ... I swear it to you.... He is keeping up his falsehood to the bitter end. He betray me! He love another woman! You're lying, Philippe, are you not? Oh, hush, hush!"
Suddenly, Philippe felt a hand wringing his arm. Turning round, he saw Commissary Jorancé, with a white, threatening face, and heard him say, in a dull voice:
"What did you mean to suggest? Whom are you talking about? Oh, I'll make you answer, trust me!"
Philippe stared at him in stupefaction. And he also stared at Marthe's distorted features. And he was surprised, for he did not think that he had spoken words that could arouse their suspicions.
"But you are all mad!" he said. "Come, M. Jorancé.... Come, Marthe.... What's the matter? I don't know what you can have understood.... Perhaps it's my fault ... I am so tired!"
"Whom have you been talking about?" repeated Jorancé, shaking with rage.
"Confess! Confess!" demanded Marthe, pressing him hard with all her jealous hatred.
And, behind her, Philippe saw old Morestal, huddled in his chair, as though unable to recover from the blows that had struck him. That was Philippe's first victim. Was he to offer up two more? He started:
"Enough! Enough!... This is all hateful.... There is a terrible misunderstanding between us.... And all that I say only makes it worse.... We will have an explanation later, I promise you, M. Jorancé.... You also, Marthe, I swear it.... And you will realize your mistake. But let us be silent now, please.... We have tortured one another long enough."