Patrice climbed the stairs, feeling a good deal calmer. But, when he came to the first floor, he was astonished to find that the electric light was not on. He turned on the switch. Then he saw, at the end of the passage, Ya-Bon on his knees outside Coralie’s room, with his head leaning against the wall. The door was open.
“What are you doing there?” he shouted, running up.
Ya-Bon made no reply. Patrice saw that there was blood on the shoulder of his jacket. At that moment the Senegalese sank to the floor.
“Damn it! He’s wounded! Dead perhaps.”
He leapt over the body and rushed into the room, switching on the light at once.
Coralie was lying at full length on a sofa. Round her neck was the terrible little red-silk cord. And yet Patrice did not experience that awful, numbing despair which we feel in the presence of irretrievable misfortunes. It seemed to him that Coralie’s face had not the pallor of death.
He found that she was in fact breathing:
“She’s not dead. She’s not dead,” said Patrice to himself. “And she’s not going to die, I’m sure of it . . . nor Ya-Bon either. . . . They’ve failed this time.”
He loosened the cords. In a few seconds Coralie heaved a deep breath and recovered consciousness. A smile lit up her eyes at the sight of him. But, suddenly remembering, she threw her arms, still so weak, around him:
“Oh, Patrice,” she said, in a trembling voice, “I’m frightened . . . frightened for you!”