He took her by the shoulders and tried to push her away. And, when
Marthe resisted, he jostled her, exasperated by the fear of the
unforeseen obstacle that might spring up, the arrival of his mother,
perhaps the apparition of old Morestal himself.

Marthe weakened. He at once seized her wrist and pulled at the door.
But, with one last effort, she thrust back her husband and, panting, in
despair:

"One word! One word more!" she implored. "Listen, Philippe, don't do
this thing.... And, if you do not do it, well, I think I could.... Oh,
it is horrible to coerce me like this!... Still, I won't have you go....
Listen, Philippe. You know my pride, the bitterness of my feelings and
all that I have suffered, all that I am suffering because of Suzanne.
Well, I will forget everything. I offer not only to forgive, but to
forget. Never a single word shall remind you of the past ... never an
allusion ... I swear it! But don't desert, Philippe, I entreat you,
don't do that!"

She hung on to his clothes and pressed herself against him, stammering:

"No, don't do that.... Do not inflict that disgrace upon your children!
The sons of a deserter!... Oh, I entreat you, Philippe, stay! We will go
away together ... and we will begin life again as it was before...."

She dragged herself at his feet, humble and supplicating, and she
received the terrible impression that her words were of no avail. She
was encountering a rival idea, against which all her strength was
shattered. Philippe did not hear her. No feeling of pity even turned him
towards her.

Calmly, with an irresistible movement, he clasped Marthe's wrists,
gathered them in one of his hands, opened the door with the other and,
flinging his wife from him, fled.

Marthe was seized with a feeling akin to despair. However, the bag was
still there and she believed that he would come back to fetch it. Then,
realizing her mistake, she suddenly rose and started to run:

"Philippe! Philippe!" she cried.

Like him, she was thinking of some outside interference, of old
Morestal, whom the outcries might attract and whom Philippe would find
on his path.

"Philippe! Philippe!"

She became scared, not knowing where to look for him. There was nobody
in the garden. She returned to the drawing-room, for she seemed to hear
a sound of voices. And in fact she saw a sergeant and a private soldier
hurriedly crossing the terrace, with the gardener's son leading the way.

"Follow me!" the