“Then the stone lifts?” asked Patrice, anxiously. “I can’t lift it by myself. It can’t be done. It would take three men to lift that.”
“No,” said the old man, “the stone swings on a pivot. You’ll manage quite easily. All you have to do is to pull at one end . . . this one, on the right.”
Patrice came and caught hold of the great stone slab, with its inscription, “Here lie Patrice and Coralie,” and pulled.
The stone rose at the first endeavor, as if a counterweight had forced the other end down.
“Wait,” said the old man. “We must hold it in position, or it will fall down again. You’ll find an iron bar at the bottom of the second step.”
There were three steps running into a small cavity, barely large enough to contain a man stooping. Patrice saw the iron bar and, propping up the stone with his shoulder, took the bar and set it up.
“Good,” said Siméon. “That will keep it steady. What you must now do is to lie down in the hollow. This was where my coffin was to have been and where I often used to come and lie beside my dear Coralie. I would remain for hours, flat on the ground, speaking to her. . . . We both talked. . . . Yes, I assure you, we used to talk. . . . Oh, Patrice! . . .”
Patrice had bent his tall figure in the narrow space where he was hardly able to move.
“What am I to do?” he asked.
“Don’t you hear your Coralie? There’s only a partition-wall between you: a few bricks hidden under a thin layer of earth. And a door. The other vault, Coralie’s, is behind it. And behind that there’s a third, with the bags of gold.”