The special commissary, who still feared that his zeal had been caught napping in this business, growled:
"Your shanty won't hold out for an hour."
"And who tells you," shouted Morestal, "who tells you that that hour is not exactly the one hour which we shall want to gain?... An hour! You never spoke a truer word: an hour of resistance to the first attack! An hour of delay!... That's what I wanted, that's what I offer to my country. Let every one be doing as I am, to the best of his power, let every one be haunted to fever-point by the obsession of the personal service which it is his duty to render to the country; and, if war breaks out, you shall see how a great nation can take its revenge!"
"And suppose we are beaten, in spite of all?" Philippe asked again.
"What's that?"
Old Morestal turned to his son as though he had received a blow; and a rush of blood inflamed his features. He looked Philippe in the face:
"What do you say?"
Philippe had an inkling of the conflict that would hurl them one against the other if he dared to state his objections more minutely. And he uttered words at random:
"Of course, the supposition is not one of those which we can entertain.... But, all the same ... don't you think we ought to face the possibility?..."