She could not check the trembling that shook her.
The man overhead looked down upon them, hidden behind his spectacles, which allowed no expression of satisfied hatred or joy to show on his impassive features.
“Coralie,” said Patrice, in a low voice, “do what I say. … Come. …”
He pushed her gently along, as though he were supporting her and leading her to a chair. In reality he had but one thought, to reach the table on which he had placed his revolvers, take one of them and fire.
Siméon remained motionless, like some evil genius come to unloose the tempest. … Coralie could not rid herself of that glance which weighted upon her.
“No,” she murmured, resisting Patrice, as though she feared that his intention would precipitate the dreaded catastrophe, “no, you mustn’t. …”
But Patrice, displaying greater determination, was near his object. One more effort and his hand would hold the revolver.
He quickly made up his mind, took rapid aim and fired a shot.
The head disappeared from sight.
“Oh,” said Coralie, “you were wrong, Patrice! He will take his revenge on us. …”
“No, perhaps not,” said Patrice, still holding his revolver. “I may very well have hit him. The bullet struck the frame of the skylight. But it may have glanced off, in which case …”
They waited hand in hand, with a gleam of hope, which did not last long, however.
The noise on the roof began again. And then, as before—and this they really had the impression of not seeing for the first time—as before, something passed through the opening, something that came down, that unrolled itself in the middle of the room, a ladder, a rope-ladder, the very one which Patrice had seen in old Siméon’s cupboard.
As before, they looked at it; and they knew so well that everything was being done over again, that the facts were inexorably, pitilessly linked together, they were so certain of it that their eyes at once sought the sheet of paper which must inevitably be pinned to the bottom rung.
It was there, forming a little scroll, dry and discolored and torn at the edges. It was the sheet of twenty years ago, written by Essarès and now serving, as before, to convey the same temptation and the same threat:
“Send Coralie up by herself. Her life shall be saved. I give her ten minutes to accept. If not …”
XIII
The Nails in the Coffin
“If not …”
Patrice repeated the words mechanically, several times over, while their formidable significance became apparent to both him and Coralie. The words meant that, if Coralie did not obey and did not deliver herself to the enemy, if she did not flee from prison to go with the man who held the keys of the prison, the alternative was death.
At that moment neither of them was thinking what end was in store for them nor even of that death itself. They thought only of the command to separate which the enemy had issued against them. One was to go and the other to die.
Coralie was promised her life if she would sacrifice Patrice. But what was the price of the promise? And what would be the form of the sacrifice demanded?
There was a long silence, full of uncertainty and anguish between the two lovers. They were coming to grips with something; and the drama was no longer taking place absolutely outside them, without their playing any other part than that of helpless victims. It was being enacted within themselves; and they had the power to alter its ending. It was a terrible problem. It had already been set to the earlier Coralie; and she had solved it as a lover would, for she was dead. And now it was being set again.
Patrice read the inscription; and the rapidly scrawled words became less distinct:
“I have begged and entreated Coralie. … She flung herself on her knees before me. She wants to die with me. …”
Patrice looked at Coralie. He had read the words in a very low voice; and she had not heard them. Then, in a burst of passion, he drew her eagerly to him and exclaimed:
“You must go, Coralie! You can understand that my not saying so at once was not due to hesitation. No, only … I was thinking of that man’s offer … and I am frightened for your sake. … What he asks, Coralie, is terrible. His reason for promising to save your life is that he loves you. And so you understand. … But still, Coralie, you must obey … you must go on living. … Go! It is no use waiting for the ten minutes to pass. He might change his mind and condemn you to death as well. No, Coralie, you must go, you must go at once!”
“I shall stay,” she replied, simply.
He gave a start:
“But this is madness! Why make a useless sacrifice? Are you afraid of what might happen if you obeyed him?”
“No.”
“Then go.”
“I shall stay.”
“But why? Why this obstinacy? It can do no good. Then why stay?”
“Because I love you, Patrice.”
He stood dumbfounded. He knew that she loved him and he had already told her so. But that she loved him to the extent of preferring to die in his company, this was an unexpected, exquisite and at the same time terrible delight.
“Ah,” he said, “you love me, Coralie! You love me!”
“I love you, my own Patrice.”
She put her arms around his neck; and he felt that hers was an embrace too strong to be sundered. Nevertheless, he was resolved to save her; and he refused to yield:
“If you love me,” he said, “you must obey me and save your life. Believe me, it is a hundred times more painful for me to die with you than to die alone. If I know that you are free and alive, death will be sweet to me.”
She did not listen and continued her confession, happy in making it, happy in uttering words which she had kept to herself so long:
“I have loved you, Patrice, from the
