Patrice almost carried him, while Siméon, in the last stage of weakness, stammered:
“This way. . . . Now straight ahead. . . .”
They passed the corner of the lodge and turned their steps towards the graves.
“You’re quite sure you fastened the door?” the old man continued. “Yes, I heard it slam. Oh, he’s a terrible fellow, that! You have to be on your guard with him! But you swore not to say anything, didn’t you? Swear it again, by your mother’s memory . . . no, better, swear it by Coralie. . . . May she die on the spot if you betray your oath!”
He stopped. A spasm prevented his going any further until he had drawn a little air into his lungs. Nevertheless he went on talking:
“I needn’t worry, need I? Besides, you don’t care about gold. That being so, why should you speak? Never mind, swear that you will be silent. Or, look here, give me your word of honor. That’s best. Your word, eh?”
Patrice was still holding him round the waist. It was a terrible, long agony for the officer, this slow crawl and this sort of embrace which he was compelled to adopt in order to effect Coralie’s release. As he felt the contact of the detested man’s body, he was more inclined to squeeze the life out of it. And yet a vile phrase kept recurring deep down within him:
“I am his son, I am his son. . . .”
“It’s here,” said the old man.
“Here? But these are the graves.”