“Coralie’s grave and mine. It’s what we were making for.”
He turned round in alarm:
“I say, the footprints! You’ll get rid of them on the way back, won’t you? For he would find our tracks otherwise and he would know that this is the place. . . .”
“Let’s hurry. . . . So Coralie is here? Down there? Buried? Oh, how horrible!”
It seemed to Patrice as if each minute that passed meant more than an hour’s delay and as if Coralie’s safety might be jeopardized by a moment’s hesitation or a single false step.
He took every oath that was demanded of him. He swore upon Coralie’s head. He pledged his word of honor. At that moment there was not an action which he would not have been ready to perform.
Siméon knelt down on the grass, under the little temple, pointing with his finger:
“It’s there,” he repeated. “Underneath that.”
“Under the tombstone?”
“Yes.”