And, addressing Le Corbier:
"Leave me alone with him, monsieur le ministre.... He will confess to me that he is lying, that he is talking like that because he has to ... or because he is mad ... who knows? Yes, because he is mad!... How could she love you? Why should she? Since when? She, who is your wife's friend.... Get out, I know my daughter!... But answer, you villain!... Morestal, my friend, make him answer ... make him give his proofs.... And you, Suzanne, why don't you spit in his face?"
He turned upon Suzanne; and Marthe, rousing herself from her torpor, went up to the girl, as he did.
Suzanne stood tottering on her feet, with averted gaze.
"Well, what's this?" roared her father. "Won't you answer either? Haven't you a word to answer to that liar?"
She tried to speak, stammered a few confused syllables and was silent.
Philippe met her eyes, the eyes of a hunted fawn, a pair of poor eyes pleading for help.
"You admit it! You admit it!" shouted Jorancé.
And he made a sudden rush at her; and Philippe, as in a nightmare, saw Suzanne flung back, shaken by her father, struck by Marthe, who, she too, in an abrupt fit of fury, demanded the useless confession.