“I’ll tell you. Listen. But remember, we must go to Coralie’s assistance . . . and that quickly . . . otherwise . . .”
Patrice hesitated, bending one leg, almost on his knees:
“Then come, do!” he said, modifying his tone. “Please come, because Coralie . . .”
“Yes, but that man . . .”
“Oh, Coralie first!”
“What do you mean? Suppose he sees us? Suppose he takes the gold from us?”
“What does that matter!”
“Oh, don’t say that, Patrice! . . . The gold! That’s the one thing! Since that gold has been mine, my life is changed. The past no longer counts . . . nor does hatred . . . nor love. . . . There’s only the gold, the bags of gold . . . I’d rather die . . . and let Coralie die . . . and see the whole world disappear . . .”
“But, look here, what is it you want? What is it you demand?”
Patrice had taken the two arms of this man who was his father and whom he had never detested with greater vehemence. He was imploring him with all the strength of his being. He would have shed tears had he thought that the old man would allow himself to be moved by tears.