"From death."
Lupin spoke this little sentence in a very distinct voice. The girl gave a shudder. Then she said:
"I am not threatened with death."
"Yes, you are, mademoiselle. At the end of October, you were reading on a bench on the terrace where you were accustomed to sit at the same hour every day, when a block of stone fell from the cornice above your head and you were within a few inches of being crushed."
"An accident...."
"One fine evening in November, you were walking in the kitchen-garden, by moonlight. A shot was fired, The bullet whizzed past your ear."
"At least, I thought so."
"Lastly, less than a week ago, the little wooden bridge that crosses the river in the park, two yards from the waterfall, gave way while you were on it. You were just able, by a miracle, to catch hold of the root of a tree."
Jeanne Darcieux tried to smile.
"Very well. But, as I wrote to Marceline, these are only a series of coincidences, of accidents...."