“Yes, that nigger who came after me . . .”
“But the others?”
“What others?”
“The two who were here? Patrice?”
“Eh? Has Patrice been?” asked Siméon, still speaking in a whisper.
“Yes, last night, after you left.”
“And you told him?”
“That he was your son.”
“Then that,” mumbled the old man, “is why he did not seem surprised at what I said.”
“Where are they now?”