The window was open. Patrice came to the conclusion that the things had gone by this way, thus confirming his theory that the old fellow was an unconscious confederate.
Shortly before ten o’clock Coralie joined him in the garden. Patrice had told her the latest events. She looked pale and anxious.
They went round the lawns and, without being seen, reached the clumps of dwarf shrubs which hid the door on the lane. Patrice opened the door. As he started to open the other his hand hesitated. He felt sorry that he had not told M. Masseron and that he and Coralie were performing by themselves a pilgrimage which certain signs warned him to be dangerous. He shook off the obsession, however. He had two revolvers with him. What had he to fear?
“You’re coming in, aren’t you, Coralie?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I somehow thought you seemed undecided, anxious . . .”
“It’s quite true,” said Coralie. “I feel a sort of hollowness.”
“Why? Are you afraid?”
“No. Or rather yes. I’m not afraid for to-day, but in some way for the past. I think of my poor mother, who went through this door, as I am doing, one April morning. She was perfectly happy, she was going to meet her love. . . . And then I feel as if I wanted to hold her back and cry, ‘Don’t go on. . . . Death is lying in wait for you. . . . Don’t go on. . . .’ And it’s I who hear those words of terror, they ring in my ears; it’s I who hear them and I dare not go on. I’m afraid.”
“Let’s go back, Coralie.”