"That's where it must have happened . . . long ago," said Coralie, in a frightened whisper. "Yes," said Patrice, "we shall find Siméon there. But, if your courage fails you, Coralie, we had better give it up." An unquestioning force of will supported her. Nothing now would have induced her to stop. She walked on. Though large, the room gave an impression of coziness, owing to the way in which it was furnished. The sofas, armchairs, carpet and hangings all tended to add to its comfort; and its appearance might well have remained unchanged since the tragic death of the two who used to occupy it. This appearance was rather that of a studio, because of a skylight which filled the middle of the high ceiling, where the belvedere was. The light came from here. There were two other windows, but these were hidden by curtains. "Siméon is not here," said Patrice. Coralie did not reply. She was examining the things around her with an emotion which was reflected in every feature. There were books, all of them going back to the last century. Some of them were signed "Coralie" in pencil on their blue or yellow wrappers. There were pieces of unfinished needlework, an embroidery-frame, a piece of tapestry with a needle hanging to it by a thread of wool. And there were also books signed "Patrice" and a box of cigars and a blotting-pad and an inkstand and penholders. And there were two small framed photographs, those of two children, Patrice and Coralie. And thus the life of long ago went on, not only the life of two lovers who loved each other with a violent and fleeting passion, but of two beings who dwell together in the calm assurance of a long existence spent in common. "Oh, my darling, darling mother!" Coralie whispered. Her emotion increased with each new memory. She leant trembling on Patrice's shoulder. "Let's go," he said. "Yes, dear, yes, we had better. We will come back again. . . . We will come back to them. . . . We will revive the life of love that was cut short by their death. Let us go for to-day; I have no strength left." But they had taken only a few steps when they stopped dismayed. The door was closed. Their eyes met, filled with uneasiness. "We didn't close it, did we?" he asked. "No," she said, "we didn't close it." He went to open it and perceived that it had neither handle nor lock. It was a single door, of massive wood that looked hard and substantial. It might well have been made of one piece, taken from the very heart of an oak. There was no paint or varnish on it. Here and there were scratches, as if some one had been rapping at it with a tool. And then . . . and then, on the right, were these few words in pencil: _Patrice and Coralie, 14 April, 1895_ _God will avenge us_ Below this was a cross and, below the cross, another date, but in a different and more recent handwriting: _14 April, 1915_