"Armand Belval wished it so. At that time I was living in a garret in this house. I took a lodging for him where he came and lived by stealth, under the name of Siméon Diodokis, since Armand Belval was dead, and where he stayed for several months without going out. Then, in his new name and through me, he bought his lodge. And, bit by bit, we dug the graves. Coralie's and his. His because, I repeat, he wished it so. Patrice and Coralie were both dead. It seemed to him, in this way, that he was not leaving her. Perhaps also, I confess, despair had upset his balance a little, just a very little, only in what concerned his memory of the woman who died on the fourteenth of April, 1895, and his devotion for her. He wrote her name and his own everywhere: on the grave and also on the walls, on the trees and in the very borders of the flower-beds. They were Coralie Essarès' name and yours. . . . And for this, for all that had to do with his revenge upon the murderer and with his son and with the dead woman's daughter, oh, for these matters he had all his wits about him, believe me, sir!" Patrice stretched his clutching hands and his distraught face towards the porter: "Proofs, proofs, proofs!" he insisted, in a stifled voice. "Give me proofs at once! There's some one dying at this moment by that scoundrel's criminal intentions, there's a woman at the point of death. Give me proofs!" "You need have no fear," said M. Vacherot. "My friend has only one thought, that of saving the woman, not killing her. . . ." "He lured her and me into the lodge to kill us, as our parents were killed before us." "He is trying only to unite you." "Yes, in death." "No, in life. You are his dearly-loved son. He always spoke of you with pride." "He is a ruffian, a monster!" shouted the officer. "He is the very best man living, sir, and he is your father." Patrice started, stung by the insult: "Proofs," he roared, "proofs! I forbid you to speak another word until you have proved the truth in a manner admitting of no doubt." Without moving from his seat, the old man put out his arm towards an old mahogany escritoire, lowered the lid and, pressing a spring, pulled out one of the drawers. Then he held out a bundle of papers: