“Let’s go. Else I shall go mad too. It’s a nightmare, there’s no other word for it, a nightmare in which things turn upside down until the brain itself capsizes. Let’s go. Coralie is in danger. That’s the only thing that matters.”
The old man shook his head:
“I’m very much afraid . . .”
“What are you afraid of?” bellowed the officer.
“I’m afraid that my poor friend has been caught up by the person who was following him . . . and then how can he have saved Mme. Essarès? The poor thing was hardly able to breathe, he told me.”
Hanging on to Don Luis’ arm, Patrice staggered out of the porter’s lodge like a drunken man:
“She’s done for, she must be!” he cried.
“Not at all,” said Don Luis. “Siméon is as feverishly active as yourself. He is nearing the catastrophe. He is quaking with fear and not in a condition to weigh his words. Believe me, your Coralie is in no immediate danger. We have some hours before us.”
“But Ya-Bon? Suppose Ya-Bon has laid hands upon him?”
“I gave Ya-Bon orders not to kill him. Therefore, whatever happens, Siméon is alive. That’s the great thing. So long as Siméon is alive, there is nothing to fear. He won’t let your Coralie die.”