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 Jorancé."
It was as though Jorancé, 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 Jorancé. "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:
"Confess, confess!... You're lying, aren't you?... It's because of your opinions, that's it, because of your opinions!... You want a proof ... an alibi ... and so ..."