"Be careful with him, Patrice. He means to take the gold and keep it." "Don't waste time," said Patrice, impatiently. "Get to Coralie." "I've told you Coralie was alive." "She was alive when you left her; but since then . . ." "Yes, since then . . ." "Since then, what? You seem to have your doubts." "It was last night, five or six hours ago, and I am afraid . . ." Patrice felt a cold shudder run down his back. He would have given anything for a decisive word; and at the same time he was almost strangling the old man to punish him. He mastered himself, however: "Don't let's waste time," he repeated. "Tell me where to go." "No, we'll go together." "You haven't the strength." "Yes, yes, I can manage . . . it's not far. Only, only, listen to me. . . ." The old man seemed utterly exhausted. From time to time his breathing was interrupted, as though Ya-Bon's hand were still clutching him by the throat, and he sank into a heap, moaning. Patrice stooped over him: "I'm listening," he said. "But, for God's sake, hurry!" "All right," said Siméon. "All right. She'll be free in a few minutes. But on one condition, just one. . . . Patrice, you must swear to me on Coralie's head that you will not touch the gold and that no one shall know . . ." "I swear it on her head." "You swear it, yes; but the other one, your damned companion, he'll follow us, he'll see." "No, he won't." "Yes, he will, unless you consent . . ." "To what? Oh, in Heaven's name, speak!" "I'll tell you. Listen. But remember, we must go to Coralie's assistance . . . and that quickly . . . otherwise . . ." Patrice hesitated, bending one leg, almost on his knees: "Then come, do!" he said, modifying his tone. "Please come, because Coralie . . ." "Yes, but that man . . ." "Oh, Coralie first!" "What do you mean? Suppose he sees us? Suppose he takes the gold from us?" "What does that matter!" "Oh, don't say that, Patrice! . . . The gold! That's the one thing! Since that gold has been mine, my life is changed. The past no longer counts . . . nor does hatred . . . nor love. . . . There's only the gold, the bags of gold . . . I'd rather die . . . and let Coralie die . . . and see the whole world disappear . . ." "But, look here, what is it you want? What is it you demand?" Patrice had taken the two arms of this man who was his father and whom he had never detested with greater vehemence. He was imploring him with all the strength of his being. He would have shed tears had he thought that the old man would allow himself to be moved by tears. "What is it?" "I'll tell you. Listen. He's there, isn't he?" "Yes." "In the studio?" "Yes." "In that case . . . he mustn't come out. . . ." "How do you mean?" "No, he must stay there until we've done." "But . . ." "It's quite easy. Listen carefully. You've only to make a movement, to shut the door on him. The lock has been forced, but there are the two bolts; and those will do. Do you consent?" Patrice rebelled: