The Golden Triangle Part 52

"She can't breathe, on my soul she can't! . . . Perhaps just a very little air reaches her, but that is all. . . . Then again I can't tell that all that covers and protects her hasn't given way. If it has, she's suffocating . . . while you stand here arguing. . . . Look here, can it matter to you to lock up that man for ten minutes? . . . Only ten minutes, you know. And you still hesitate! Then it's you who are killing her, Patrice. Think . . . buried alive!"

Patrice drew himself up. His resolve was taken. At that moment he would have shrunk from no act, however painful. And what Simeon asked was so little.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Give your orders."

"You know what I want," said the other. "It's quite simple. Go to the door, bolt it and come back again."

The officer entered the lodge with a firm step and walked through the hall. The light was dancing up and down at the far end of the studio.

Without a word, without a moment's hesitation, he slammed the door, shot both the bolts and hastened back. He felt relieved. The action was a base one, but he never doubted that he had fulfilled an imperative duty.

"That's it," he said, "Let's hurry."

"Help me up," said the old man. "I can't manage by myself."

Patrice took him under the armpits and lifted him to his feet. But he had to support him, for the old man's legs were swaying beneath him.

"Oh, curse it!" blurted Simeon. "That blasted n.i.g.g.e.r has done for me.

I'm suffocating too, I can't walk."

Patrice almost carried him, while Simeon, in the last stage of weakness, stammered:

"This way. . . . Now straight ahead. . . ."

They pa.s.sed the corner of the lodge and turned their steps towards the graves.

"You're quite sure you fastened the door?" the old man continued. "Yes, I heard it slam. Oh, he's a terrible fellow, that! You have to be on your guard with him! But you swore not to say anything, didn't you?

Swear it again, by your mother's memory . . . no, better, swear it by Coralie. . . . May she die on the spot if you betray your oath!"

He stopped. A spasm prevented his going any further until he had drawn a little air into his lungs. Nevertheless he went on talking:

"I needn't worry, need I? Besides, you don't care about gold. That being so, why should you speak? Never mind, swear that you will be silent.

Or, look here, give me your word of honor. That's best. Your word, eh?"

Patrice was still holding him round the waist. It was a terrible, long agony for the officer, this slow crawl and this sort of embrace which he was compelled to adopt in order to effect Coralie's release. As he felt the contact of the detested man's body, he was more inclined to squeeze the life out of it. And yet a vile phrase kept recurring deep down within him:

"I am his son, I am his son. . . ."

"It's here," said the old man.

"Here? But these are the graves."

"Coralie's grave and mine. It's what we were making for."

He turned round in alarm:

"I say, the footprints! You'll get rid of them on the way back, won't you? For he would find our tracks otherwise and he would know that this is the place. . . ."

"Let's hurry. . . . So Coralie is here? Down there? Buried? Oh, how horrible!"

It seemed to Patrice as if each minute that pa.s.sed meant more than an hour's delay and as if Coralie's safety might be jeopardized by a moment's hesitation or a single false step.

He took every oath that was demanded of him. He swore upon Coralie's head. He pledged his word of honor. At that moment there was not an action which he would not have been ready to perform.

Simeon knelt down on the gra.s.s, under the little temple, pointing with his finger:

"It's there," he repeated. "Underneath that."

"Under the tombstone?"

"Yes."

"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 Simeon. "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 a.s.sure you, we used to talk. . . . Oh, Patrice!

Patrice had bent his tall figure in the narrow s.p.a.ce where he was hardly able to move.

"What am I to do?" he asked.

"Don't you hear your Coralie? There's only a part.i.tion-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."

The old man was bending over and directing the search as he knelt on the gra.s.s:

"The door's on the left. Farther than that. Can't you find it? That's odd. You mustn't be too slow about it, though. Ah, have you got it now?

No? Oh, if I could only go down too! But there's not room for more than one."

There was a brief silence. Then he began again:

"Stretch a bit farther. Good. Can you move?"

"Yes," said Patrice.

"Then go on moving, my lad!" cried the old man, with a yell of laughter.

And, stepping back briskly, he s.n.a.t.c.hed away the iron bar. The enormous block of stone came down heavily, slowly, because of the counterweight, but with irresistible force.