Coralie uttered them without alarm. All her fears seemed to disappear in her love; and it was love alone that shook her voice and dimmed the brightness of her eyes.
Patrice contemplated her with a rapt look. He too was beginning to think that minutes such as these were worth dying for. Nevertheless, he made a last effort:
“And if I ordered you to go, Coralie?”
“That is to say,” she murmured, “if you ordered me to go to that man and surrender myself to him? Is that what you wish, Patrice?”
The thought was too much for him.
“Oh, the horror of it! That man . . . that man . . . you, my Coralie, so stainless and undefiled! . . .”
Neither he nor she pictured the man in the exact image of Siméon. To both of them, notwithstanding the hideous vision perceived above, the enemy retained a mysterious character. It was perhaps Siméon. It was perhaps another, of whom Siméon was but the instrument. Assuredly it was the enemy, the evil genius crouching above their heads, preparing their death-throes while he pursued Coralie with his foul desire.
Patrice asked one more question:
“Did you ever notice that Siméon sought your company?”
“No, never. If anything, he rather avoided me.”