“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you. Listen. He’s there, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“In the studio?”
“Yes.”
“In that case … he mustn’t come out. …”
“How do you mean?”
“No, he must stay there until we’ve done.”
“But …”
“It’s quite easy. Listen carefully. You’ve only to make a movement, to shut the door on him. The lock has been forced, but there are the two bolts; and those will do. Do you consent?”
Patrice rebelled:
“But you’re mad! I consent, I? … Why, the man saved my life! … He saved Coralie!”
“But he’s doing for her now. Think a moment: if he were not there, if he were not interfering, Coralie would be free. Do you accept?”
“No.”
“Why not? Do you know what that man is? A highway robber … a wretch who has only one thought, to get hold of the millions. And you have scruples! Come, it’s absurd, isn’t it? … Do you accept?”
“No and again no!”
“Then so much the worse for Coralie. … Oh, yes, I see you don’t realize the position exactly! It’s time you did, Patrice. Perhaps it’s even too late.”
“Oh, don’t say that!”
“Yes, yes, you must learn the facts and take your share of the responsibility. When that damned negro was chasing me, I got rid of Coralie as best I could, intending to release her in an hour or two. And then … and then you know what happened. … It was eleven o’clock at night … nearly eight hours ago. … So work it out for yourself …”
Patrice wrung his hands. Never had he imagined that a man could be tortured to such a degree. And Siméon continued, unrelentingly.
“She can’t breathe, on my soul she can’t! … Perhaps just a very little air reaches her, but that is all. … Then again I can’t tell that all that covers and protects her hasn’t given way. If it has, she’s suffocating … while you stand here arguing. … Look here, can it matter to you to lock up that man for ten minutes? … Only ten minutes, you know. And you still hesitate! Then it’s you who are killing her, Patrice. Think … buried alive!”
Patrice drew himself up. His resolve was taken. At that moment he would have shrunk from no act, however painful. And what Siméon asked was so little.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Give your orders.”
“You know what I want,” said the other. “It’s quite simple. Go to the door, bolt it and come back again.”
The officer entered the lodge with a firm step and walked through the hall. The light was dancing up and down at the far end of the studio.
Without a word, without a moment’s hesitation, he slammed the door, shot both the bolts and hastened back. He felt relieved. The action was a base one, but he never doubted that he had fulfilled an imperative duty.
“That’s it,” he said, “Let’s hurry.”
“Help me up,” said the old man. “I can’t manage by myself.”
Patrice took him under the armpits and lifted him to his feet. But he had to support him, for the old man’s legs were swaying beneath him.
“Oh, curse it!” blurted Siméon. “That blasted nigger has done for me. I’m suffocating too, I can’t walk.”
Patrice almost carried him, while Siméon, in the last stage of weakness, stammered:
“This way. … Now straight ahead. …”
They passed the corner of the lodge and turned their steps towards the graves.
“You’re quite sure you fastened the door?” the old man continued. “Yes, I heard it slam. Oh, he’s a terrible fellow, that! You have to be on your guard with him! But you swore not to say anything, didn’t you? Swear it again, by your mother’s memory … no, better, swear it by Coralie. … May she die on the spot if you betray your oath!”
He stopped. A spasm prevented his going any further until he had drawn a little air into his lungs. Nevertheless he went on talking:
“I needn’t worry, need I? Besides, you don’t care about gold. That being so, why should you speak? Never mind, swear that you will be silent. Or, look here, give me your word of honor. That’s best. Your word, eh?”
Patrice was still holding him round the waist. It was a terrible, long agony for the officer, this slow crawl and this sort of embrace which he was compelled to adopt in order to effect Coralie’s release. As he felt the contact of the detested man’s body, he was more inclined to squeeze the life out of it. And yet a vile phrase kept recurring deep down within him:
“I am his son, I am his son. …”
“It’s here,” said the old man.
“Here? But these are the graves.”
“Coralie’s grave and mine. It’s what we were making for.”
He turned round in alarm:
“I say, the footprints! You’ll get rid of them on the way back, won’t you? For he would find our tracks otherwise and he would know that this is the place. …”
“Let’s hurry. … So Coralie is here? Down there? Buried? Oh, how horrible!”
It seemed to Patrice as if each minute that passed meant more than an hour’s delay and as if Coralie’s safety might be jeopardized by a moment’s hesitation or a single false step.
He took every oath that was demanded of him. He swore upon Coralie’s head. He pledged his word of honor. At that moment there was not an action which he would not have been ready to perform.
Siméon knelt down on the grass, under the little temple, pointing with his finger:
“It’s there,” he repeated. “Underneath that.”
“Under the tombstone?”
“Yes.”
“Then the stone lifts?” asked Patrice, anxiously. “I can’t lift it by myself. It can’t be done. It would take three men to lift that.”
“No,” said the old man, “the stone swings on a pivot. You’ll manage quite easily. All you have to do is to pull at one end … this one, on the right.”
Patrice came and caught hold of the great stone slab, with its inscription, “Here lie Patrice and Coralie,” and pulled.
The stone rose at the first endeavor, as if a counterweight had forced the other
