“Yes, I should think so. All the Étretat folk like to call it the Demoiselles.”
“What?—What?—What’s that you say?”
“Why, of course—it’s the Chambre des Demoiselles.”
Isidore felt like flying at his throat, as though all the truth lived in that man and he hoped to get it from him at one swoop, to tear it from him.
The Demoiselles! One of the words, one of the only three known words of the document!
A whirlwind of madness shook Beautrelet where he stood. And it rose all around him, blew upon him like a tempestuous squall that came from the sea, that came from the land, that came from every direction and whipped him with great lashes of the truth.
He understood. The document appeared to him in its real sense. The Chambre des Demoiselles—Étretat—
“That’s it,” he thought, his brain filled with light, “it must be that. But why didn’t I guess earlier?”
He said to the shepherd, in a low voice:
“That will do—go away—you can go—thank you.”