The names of all these men too—Colonel Fakhi, Mustapha, Bournef, Essarès—their accent in talking, their way of holding themselves, their features, their figures, all recalled impressions which he had gathered in the Near East, in the hotels at Alexandria or on the banks of the Bosphorus, in the bazaars of Adrianople or in the Greek boats that plow the Ægean Sea. They were Levantine types, but of Levantines who had taken root in Paris. Essarès Bey was a name which Patrice recognized as well-known in the financial world, even as he knew that of Colonel Fakhi, whose speech and intonation marked him for a seasoned Parisian.
But a sound of voices came from outside the door. It was flung open violently and the four men appeared, dragging in a bound man, whom they dropped to the floor as they entered.
“Here’s old Siméon,” cried the one whom Fakhi had addressed as Bournef.
“And the wife?” asked the leader. “I hope you’ve got her too!”
“Well, no.”
“What is that? Has she escaped?”
“Yes, through her window.”
“But you must run after her. She can only be in the garden. Remember, the watchdog was barking just now.”
“And suppose she’s got away?”
“How?”
“By the door on the lane?”
“Impossible!”
“Why?”
“The door hasn’t been used for years. There’s not even a key to it.”
“That’s as may be,” Bournef rejoined. “All the same, we’re surely not going to organize a battue with lanterns and rouse the whole district for the sake of finding a woman …”
“Yes, but that woman …”
Colonel Fakhi seemed exasperated. He turned to the prisoner:
“You’re in luck, you old rascal! This is the second time today that minx of yours has slipped through my fingers! Did she tell you what happened this afternoon? Oh, if it hadn’t been for an infernal officer who happened to be passing! … But I’ll get hold of him yet and he shall pay dearly for his interference. …”
Patrice clenched his fists with fury. He understood: Coralie was hiding in her own house. Surprised by the sudden arrival of the five men, she had managed to climb out of her window and, making her way along the terrace to the steps, had gone to the part of the house opposite the rooms that were in use and taken refuge in the gallery of the library, where she was able to witness the terrible assault levied at her husband.
“Her husband!” thought Patrice, with a shudder. “Her husband!”
And, if he still entertained any doubts on the subject, the hurried course of events soon removed them, for the leader began to chuckle:
“Yes, Essarès, old man, I confess that she attracts me more than I can tell you; and, as I failed to catch her earlier in the day, I did hope this evening, as soon as I had settled my business with you, to settle something infinitely more agreeable with your wife. Not to mention that, once in my power, the little woman would be serving me as a hostage and that I would only have restored her to you—oh, safe and sound, believe me!—after specific performance of our agreement. And you would have run straight, Essarès! For you love your Coralie passionately! And quite right too!”
He went to the right-hand side of the fireplace and, touching a switch, lit an electric lamp under a reflector between the third and fourth windows. There was a companion picture here to Essarès’ portrait, but it was covered over. The leader drew the curtain, and Coralie appeared in the full light.
“The monarch of all she surveys! The idol! The witch! The pearl of pearls! The imperial diamond of Essarès Bey, banker! Isn’t she beautiful? I ask you. Admire the delicate outline of her face, the purity of that oval; and the pretty neck; and those graceful shoulders. Essarès, there’s not a favorite in the country we come from who can hold a candle to your Coralie! My Coralie, soon! For I shall know how to find her. Ah, Coralie, Coralie! …”
Patrice looked across at her, and it seemed to him that her face was reddened with a blush of shame. He himself was shaken by indignation and anger at each insulting word. It was a violent enough sorrow to him to know that Coralie was the wife of another; and added to this sorrow was his rage at seeing her thus exposed to these men’s gaze and promised as a helpless prey to whosoever should prove himself the strongest.
At the same time, he wondered why Coralie remained in the room. Supposing that she could not leave the garden, nevertheless she was free to move about in that part of the house and might well have opened a window and called for help. What prevented her from doing so? Of course she did not love her husband. If she had loved him, she would have faced every danger to defend him. But how was it possible for her to allow that man to be tortured, worse still, to be present at his sufferings, to contemplate that most hideous of sights and to listen to his yells of pain?
“Enough of this nonsense!” cried the leader, pulling the curtain back into its place. “Coralie, you shall be my final reward; but I must first win you. Comrades, to work; let’s finish our friend’s job. First of all, twenty inches nearer, no more. Good! Does it burn, Essarès? All the same, it’s not more than you can stand. Bear up, old fellow.”
He unfastened the prisoner’s right arm, put a little table by his side, laid a pencil and paper on it and continued:
“There’s writing-materials for you. As your gag prevents you from speaking, write. You know what’s wanted of you, don’t you? Scribble a few letters, and you’re free. Do you consent? No? Comrades, three inches nearer.”
He moved away and stooped over the secretary, whom Patrice, by the brighter light, had recognized as the old fellow who sometimes escorted Coralie to the hospital.
“As for you, Siméon,” he
