He answered, in a low voice:
“I am capable of hatred. Beware, Coralie. The very moment when you believe that you have nothing more to fear will perhaps be the moment when I shall call you to account. Take care.”
He pushed an electric bell. Old Siméon appeared.
“So the two men-servants have decamped?” asked Essarès. And, without waiting for the answer, he went on, “A good riddance. The housemaid and the cook can do all I want. They heard nothing, did they? No, their bedroom is too far away. No matter, Siméon: you must keep a watch on them after I am gone.”
He looked at his wife, surprised to see her still there, and said to his secretary:
“I must be up at six to get everything ready; and I am dead tired. Take me to my room. You can come back and put out the lights afterwards.”
He went out, supported by Siméon. Patrice Belval at once perceived that Coralie had done her best to show no weakness in her husband’s presence, but that she had come to the end of her strength and was unable to walk. Seized with faintness, she fell on her knees, making the sign of the cross.
When she was able to rise, a few minutes later, she saw on the carpet, between her and the door, a sheet of note-paper with her name on it. She picked it up and read:
“Little Mother Coralie, the struggle is too much for you. Why not appeal to me, your friend? Give a signal and I am with you.”
She staggered, dazed by the discovery of the letter and dismayed by Belval’s daring. But, making a last effort to summon up her power of will, she left the room, without giving the signal for which Patrice was longing.