Patrice Belval grasped his revolver.
“Oh, I’m going on too!” he said to himself. “I won’t let that wretch be . . .”
But, at this very moment, when he was on the point of drawing himself up and acting, a chance movement made him behold the most extraordinary and unexpected sight. Opposite him, on the other side of the room, in a part of the balcony corresponding with that where he was, he saw a woman’s head, a head glued to the rails, livid and terror-stricken, with eyes wide-open in horror gazing frenziedly at the awful scene that was being enacted below by the glowing fire.
Patrice had recognized Little Mother Coralie.
CHAPTER IV
BEFORE THE FLAMES
Little Mother Coralie! Coralie concealed in this house into which her assailants had forced their way and in which she herself was hiding, through force of circumstances which were incapable of explanation.
His first idea, which would at least have solved one of the riddles, was that she also had entered from the lane, gone into the house by the steps and in this way opened a passage for him. But, in that case, how had she procured the means of carrying out this enterprise? And, above all, what brought her here?
All these questions occurred to Captain Belval’s mind without his trying to reply to them. He was far too much impressed by the absorbed expression on Coralie’s face. Moreover, a second cry, even wilder than the first, came from below; and he saw the victim’s face writhing before the red curtain of fire from the hearth.
But, this time, Patrice, held back by Coralie’s presence, had no inclination to go to the sufferer’s assistance. He decided to model himself entirely upon her and not to move or do anything to attract her attention.