And the supposition was partly realized, since he had lost his wits.
“Come, come,” muttered Patrice, “this is sheer idiocy. . . . I am fancying things. . . . There is no reason . . .”
But his mental anguish increased every minute. He reminded himself that old Siméon was still in full possession of his faculties at the time when he wrote that letter and gave the advice which it contained. He reminded himself that old Siméon had purposely informed him that the key opened the door of Coralie’s garden, so that he, Patrice, might keep an effective watch by coming to her in case of need.
He saw Siméon some way ahead of him. It was growing late, and the old fellow was going home. Patrice passed him just outside the porter’s lodge and heard him humming to himself.
“Any news?” Patrice asked the soldier on duty.
“No, sir.”
“Where’s Little Mother Coralie?”
“She had a walk in the garden and went upstairs half an hour ago.”
“Ya-Bon?”
“Ya-Bon went up with Little Mother Coralie. He should be at her door.”