The enemy’s footsteps were pounding over the zinc.
“Yes,” said Patrice, “he is going up as before, without departing from the procedure followed by the other. Only we do not know whose face will appear to us. Our parents knew their enemy.”
She shuddered at her image of the man who had killed her mother; and she asked:
“It was he, was it not?”
“Yes, it was he. There is his name, written by my father.”
Patrice had almost entirely uncovered the inscription. Bending low, he pointed with his finger:
“Look. Read the name: Essarès. You can see it down there: it was one of the last words my father wrote.”
And Coralie read:
“The skylight rose higher, a hand lifted it and we saw . . . we saw, laughing as he looked down on us—oh, the scoundrel—Essarès! . . . Essarès! . . . And then he passed something through the opening, something that came down, that unrolled itself in the middle of the room, over our heads: a ladder, a rope-ladder.
“We did not understand. It was swinging in front of us. And then, in the end, I saw a sheet of paper rolled round the bottom rung and pinned to it. On the paper, in Essarès’ handwriting, are the words, ‘Send Coralie up by herself. Her life shall be saved. I give her ten minutes to accept. If not . . .’”