“There were two bodies. We wrapped them in winding-sheets and put them into the coffins. At eleven o’clock my governor and my fellow-workmen went away and left me alone with a sister of mercy. There was nothing more to do except to nail the coffins down. Well, just then, the nun, who had been watching and praying, fell asleep and something happened . . . oh, an awful thing! It made my hair stand on end, sir. I shall never forget it as long as I live. My knees gave way beneath me, I shook with fright. . . . Sir, the man’s body had moved. The man was alive!”
“Then you didn’t know of the murder at that time?” asked Don Luis. “You hadn’t heard of the attempt?”
“No, we were told that they had both suffocated themselves with gas. . . . It was many hours before the man recovered consciousness entirely. He was in some way poisoned.”
“But why didn’t you inform the nun?”
“I couldn’t say. I was simply stunned. I looked at the man as he slowly came back to life and ended by opening his eyes. His first words were, ‘She’s dead, I suppose?’ And then at once he said, ‘Not a word about all this. Let them think me dead: that will be better.’ And I can’t tell you why, but I consented. The miracle had deprived me of all power of will. I obeyed like a child. . . . He ended by getting up. He leant over the other coffin, drew aside the sheet and kissed the dead woman’s face over and over again, whispering, ‘I will avenge you. All my life shall be devoted to avenging you and also, as you wished, to uniting our children. If I don’t kill myself, it will be for Patrice and Coralie’s sake. Good-by.’ Then he told me to help him. Between us, we lifted the woman out of the coffin and carried it into the little bedroom next door. Then we went into the garden, took some big stones and put them into the coffins where the two bodies had been. When this was done, I nailed the coffins down, woke the good sister and went away. The man had locked himself into the bedroom with the dead woman. Next morning the undertaker’s men came and fetched away the two coffins.”
Patrice had unclasped his hands and thrust his distorted features between Don Luis and the porter. Fixing his haggard eyes upon the latter, he asked, struggling with his words:
“But the graves? The inscription saying that the remains of both lie there, near the lodge where the murder was committed? The cemetery?”
“Armand Belval wished it so. At that time I was living in a garret in this house. I took a lodging for him where he came and lived by stealth, under the name of Siméon Diodokis, since Armand Belval was dead, and where he stayed for several months without going out. Then, in his new name and through me, he bought his lodge. And, bit by bit, we dug the graves. Coralie’s and his. His because, I repeat, he wished it so. Patrice and Coralie were both dead. It seemed to him, in this way, that he was not leaving her. Perhaps also, I confess, despair had upset his balance a little, just a very little, only in what concerned his memory of the woman who died on the fourteenth of April, 1895, and his devotion for her. He wrote her name and his own everywhere: on the grave and also on the walls, on the trees and in the very borders of the flower-beds. They were Coralie Essarès’ name and yours. . . . And for this, for all that had to do with his revenge upon the murderer and with his son and with the dead woman’s daughter, oh, for these matters he had all his wits about him, believe me, sir!”
Patrice stretched his clutching hands and his distraught face towards the porter:
“Proofs, proofs, proofs!” he insisted, in a stifled voice. “Give me proofs at once! There’s some one dying at this moment by that scoundrel’s criminal intentions, there’s a woman at the point of death. Give me proofs!”