"Siméon's son! What the devil are you talking about? Oh, this beats everything! Upon my word, you're full of ideas, when you're trying to save him! You old ruffian! Of course, it's most convenient: don't kill that man, he's your father. He my father, that putrid Siméon! Siméon Diodokis, Patrice Belval's father! Oh, it's enough to make a chap split his sides!" Don Luis had listened in silence. He made a sign to Patrice: "Will you allow me to clear up this business, captain? It won't take me more than a few minutes; and that certainly won't delay us." And, without waiting for the officer's reply, he turned to the old man and said slowly, "Let's have this out, M. Vacherot. It's of the highest importance. The great thing is to speak plainly and not to lose yourself in superfluous words. Besides, you have said too much not to finish your revelation. Siméon Diodokis is not your benefactor's real name, is it?" "No, that's so." "He is Armand Belval; and the woman who loved him used to call him Patrice?" "Yes, his son's name." "Nevertheless, this Armand Belval was a victim of the same murderous attempt as the woman he loved, who was Coralie Essarès' mother?" "Yes, but Coralie Essarès' mother died; and he did not." "That was on the fourteenth of April, 1895." "The fourteenth of April, 1895." Patrice caught hold of Don Luis' arm: "Come," he spluttered, "Coralie's at death's door. The monster has buried her. That's the only thing that matters." "Then you don't believe that monster to be your father?" asked Don Luis. "You're mad!" "For all that, captain, you're trembling! . . ." "I dare say, I dare say, but it's because of Coralie. . . . I can't even hear what the man's saying! . . . Oh, it's a nightmare, every word of it! Make him stop! Make him shut up! Why didn't I wring his neck?" He sank into a chair, with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. It was really a horrible moment; and no catastrophe would have overwhelmed a man more utterly. Don Luis looked at him with feeling and then turned to the porter: "Explain yourself, M. Vacherot," he said. "As briefly as possible, won't you? No details. We can go into them later. We were saying, on the fourteenth of April, 1895 . . ." "On the fourteenth of April, 1895, a solicitor's clerk, accompanied by the commissary of police, came to my governor's, close by here, and ordered two coffins for immediate delivery. The whole shop got to work. At ten o'clock in the evening, the governor, one of my mates and I went to the Rue Raynouard, to a sort of pavilion or lodge, standing in a garden." "I know. Go on."