"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 passed 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. Siméon knelt down on the grass, 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.