He thereupon applied himself to making a minute inspection of the scene of the struggle, after which he went back to Ya-Bon and then to Siméon, whose clothes and shoes he examined closely.
Patrice was face to face with his terrible enemy, whom he had propped against the wall of the lodge and was contemplating in silence, with a fixed stare of hatred. Siméon! Siméon Diodokis, the execrable demon who, two days before, had hatched the terrible plot and, bending over the skylight, had laughed as he watched their awful agony! Siméon Diodokis, who, like a wild beast, had hidden Coralie in some hole, so that he might go back and torture her at his ease!
He seemed to be in pain and to breathe with great difficulty. His windpipe had no doubt been injured by Ya-Bon’s clutch. His yellow spectacles had fallen off during the fight. A pair of thick, grizzled eyebrows lowered about his heavy lids.
“Search him, captain,” said Don Luis.
But, as Patrice seemed to shrink from the task, he himself felt in Siméon’s jacket and produced a pocketbook, which he handed to the officer.
It contained first of all a registration-card, in the name of Siméon Diodokis, Greek subject, with his photograph gummed to it. The photograph was a recent one, taken with the spectacles, the comforter and the long hair, and bore a police-stamp dated December, 1914. There was a collection of business documents, invoices and memoranda, addressed to Siméon as Essarès Bey’s secretary, and, among these papers, a letter from Amédée Vacherot, running as follows:
“Dear M. Siméon,
“I have succeeded. A young friend of mine has taken a snapshot of Mme. Essarès and Patrice at the hospital, at a moment when they were talking together. I am so glad to be able to gratify you. But when will you tell your dear son the truth? How delighted he will be when he hears it!”
At the foot of the letter were a few words in Siméon’s hand, a sort of personal note:
“Once more I solemnly pledge myself not to reveal anything to my dearly-beloved son until Coralie, my bride, is avenged and until Patrice and Coralie Essarès are free to love each other and to marry.”
“That’s your father’s writing, is it not?” asked Don Luis.
“Yes,” said Patrice, in bewilderment. “And it is also the writing of the letters which he addressed to his friend Vacherot. Oh, it’s too hideous to be true! What a man! What a scoundrel!”
Siméon moved. His eyes opened and closed repeatedly. Then, coming to himself entirely, he looked at Patrice, who at once, in a stifled voice, asked:
“Where’s Coralie?”
And, as Siméon, still dazed, seemed not to understand and sat gazing at him stupidly, he repeated, in a harsher tone:
“Where’s Coralie? What have you done with her? Where have you put her? She must be dying!”
Siméon was gradually recovering life and consciousness. He mumbled:
“Patrice. … Patrice. …”
He looked around him, saw Don Luis, no doubt remembered his fight to the death with Ya-Bon and closed his eyes again. But Patrice’s rage increased:
“Will you attend?” he shouted. “I won’t wait any longer! It’ll cost you your life if you don’t answer!”
The man’s eyes opened again, red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He pointed to his throat to indicate his difficulty in speaking. At last, with a visible effort, he repeated:
“Patrice! Is it you? … I have been waiting for this moment so long! … And now we are meeting as enemies! …”
“As mortal enemies,” said Patrice, with emphasis. “Death stands between us: Ya-Bon’s death, Coralie’s perhaps. … Where is she? You must speak, or …”
“Patrice, is it really you?” the man repeated, in a whisper.
The familiarity exasperated the officer. He caught his adversary by the lapel of his jacket and shook him. But Siméon had seen the pocketbook which he held in his other hand and, without resisting Patrice’s roughness, whined:
“You wouldn’t hurt me, Patrice. You must have found some letters; and you now know the link that binds us together. Oh, how happy I should have been … !”
Patrice had released his hold and stood staring at him in horror. Sinking his voice in his turn, he said:
“Don’t dare to speak of that: I won’t, I won’t believe it!”
“It’s the truth, Patrice.”
“You lie! You lie!” cried the officer, unable to restrain himself any longer, while his grief distorted his face out of all recognition.
“Ah, I see you have guessed it! Then I need not explain …”
“You lie! You’re just a common scoundrel! … If what you say is true, why did you plot against Coralie and me? Why did you try to murder the two of us?”
“I was mad, Patrice. Yes, I go mad at times. All these tragedies have turned my head. My own Coralie’s death … and then my life in Essarès’ shadow … and then … and then, above all, the gold! … Did I really try to kill you both? I no longer remember. Or at least I remember a dream I had: it happened in the lodge, didn’t it, as before? Oh, madness! What a torture! I’m like a man in the galleys. I have to do things against my will! … Then it was in the lodge, was it, as before? And in the same manner? With the same implements? … Yes, in my dream, I went through all my agony over again … and that of my darling. … But, instead of being tortured, I was the torturer … What a torment!”
He spoke low, inside himself, with hesitations and intervals and an unspeakable air of suffering. Don Luis kept his eyes fixed on him, as though trying to discover what he was aiming at. And Siméon continued:
“My poor Patrice! … I was so fond of you! … And now you are my worst enemy! … How indeed could it be otherwise? … How could you forget? … Oh, why didn’t they lock me up after Essarès’ death? It was then that I felt my brain going. …”
“So it was you who killed him?” asked Patrice.
“No, no, that’s just it: somebody else robbed me of
