Then, briefly and impressively, Coquenil told of the extraordinary revelations that Alice had made, not only to him, but to the director of the Santé prison.
"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" muttered the old man. "I think she's possessed of the devil."
"She's possessed of dangerous knowledge, and I want to know where she got it. I want to know all about this girl, who she is, where she came from, everything. And that's where you can help me."
Bonneton shook his head. "We know very little about her, and, the queer thing is, she seems to know very little about herself."
"Perhaps she knows more than she wants to tell."
"Perhaps, but—I don't think so. I believe she is perfectly honest. Anyhow, her cousin is a stupid fellow. He comes on from Brussels every five or six months and spends two nights with us—never more, never less. He eats his meals, attends to his commissions for wood carving, takes Alice out once in the afternoon or evening, gives my wife the money for her board, and that's all. For five years it's been the same—you know as much about him in one visit as you would in a hundred. There's nothing much to know; he's just a stupid wood carver."
"You say he takes Alice out every time he comes? Is she fond of him?"
"Why—er—yes, I think so, but he upsets her. I've noticed she's nervous just before his visits, and sort of sad after them. My wife says the girl has her worst dreams then."
Coquenil took out a box of cigarettes. "You don't mind if I smoke?" And, without waiting for permission, he lighted one of his Egyptians and inhaled long breaths of the fragrant smoke. "Not a word, Bonneton! I want to think." Then for full five minutes he sat silent.
"I have it!" he exclaimed presently. "Tell me about this man François."