"The prime minister is anxiously awaiting your return. 'Don't let him lose a minute,' he said. 'His report might spell safety. It is my last shot. If it misses fire, I can't answer for what will happen.' And he added, 'And, even then, it may be too late.'"
The silence was really excruciating around the table, in the little space inside that tent in which the cruelest of tragedies was hurling against one another a group of noble souls united by the most loyal affection. Each of them forgot his private suffering and thought only of the horror that loomed ahead. The sinister word was echoed in all their hearts.
Le Corbier gave a gesture of despair:
"His last shot! Yes, if my report gave him an opportunity of retreating! But ..."
He watched old Morestal, as though he were still expecting a sudden retractation. What was the good? Supposing he took it upon himself to extenuate the old man's statements, Morestal was the sort of uncompromising man who would give him the lie in public. And then the government would find itself in an unenviable plight indeed!
"Well," he said, "let fate take its course! We have done our very utmost. My dear Trébons, is the motor at the cross-roads?"
"Yes, monsieur le ministre."
"Please collect the papers; we will go. We have an hour to reach the station. It's more than we want."
He picked up his hat, his coat, took a few steps to and fro and stopped in front of Philippe. Philippe, he half thought, had perhaps not done his utmost. Philippe perhaps had still one stage to travel. But how was Le Corbier to find out? How was he to fathom that mysterious soul and read its insoluble riddle? Le Corbier knew those men endowed with the missionary spirit and capable, in furtherance of their cause, of admirable devotion, of almost superhuman sacrifice, but also of hypocrisy, of craft, sometimes of crime. What was this Philippe Morestal's evidence worth? What part exactly was he playing? Had he deliberately and falsely given rise to the suspicion of some amorous meeting? Or was he really carrying his heroism to the point of telling the truth?
Slowly, thoughtfully, as though in obedience to a new hope, Le Corbier went back to his seat, flung his motor-coat on the table, sat down and, addressing M. de Trébons: