“And who was the murderer?” Coralie asked, under her breath.
“You suspect it, Coralie, as I do. The hated name comes to your mind, even though we have no grounds for speaking with certainty.”
“Essarès!” she cried, in anguish.
“Most probably.”
She hid her face in her hands:
“No, no, it is impossible. It is impossible that I should have been the wife of the man who killed my mother.”
“You bore his name, but you were never his wife. You told him so the evening before his death, in my presence. Let us say nothing that we are unable to say positively; but all the same let us remember that he was your evil genius. Remember also that Siméon, my father’s friend and executor, the man who bought the lovers’ lodge, the man who swore upon their tomb to avenge them: remember that Siméon, a few months after your mother’s death, persuaded Essarès to engage him as caretaker of the estate, became his secretary and gradually made his way into Essarès’ life. His only object must have been to carry out a plan of revenge.”
“There has been no revenge.”
“What do we know about it? Do we know how Essarès met his death? Certainly it was not Siméon who killed him, as Siméon was at the hospital. But he may have caused him to be killed. And revenge has a thousand ways of manifesting itself. Lastly, Siméon was most likely obeying instructions that came from my father. There is little doubt that he wanted first to achieve an aim which my father and your mother had at heart: the union of our destinies, Coralie. And it was this aim that ruled his life. It was he evidently who placed among the knick-knacks which I collected as a child this amethyst of which the other half formed a bead in your rosary. It was he who collected our photographs. He lastly was our unknown friend and protector, the one who sent me the key, accompanied by a letter which I never received, unfortunately.”
“Then, Patrice, you no longer believe that he is dead, this unknown friend, or that you heard his dying cries?”