The door was closed.
Their eyes met, filled with uneasiness.
“We didn’t close it, did we?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “we didn’t close it.”
He went to open it and perceived that it had neither handle nor lock.
It was a single door, of massive wood that looked hard and substantial. It might well have been made of one piece, taken from the very heart of an oak. There was no paint or varnish on it. Here and there were scratches, as if some one had been rapping at it with a tool. And then . . . and then, on the right, were these few words in pencil:
Patrice and Coralie, 14 April, 1895
God will avenge us
Below this was a cross and, below the cross, another date, but in a different and more recent handwriting:
14 April, 1915
“This is terrible, this is terrible,” said Patrice. “To-day’s date! Who can have written that? It has only just been written. Oh, it’s terrible! . . . Come, come, after all, we can’t . . .”