“This room,” said Valméras, “opens at the end of a passage. Then comes an immense hall, lined with statues, and at the end of the hall a staircase which ends near the room occupied by your father.” He took a step forward. “Are you coming, Beautrelet?” “Yes, yes.” “But no, you’re not coming—What’s the matter with you?” He seized him by the hand. It was icy cold and he perceived that the young man was cowering on the floor. “What’s the matter with you?” he repeated. “Nothing—it’ll pass off—” “But what is it?” “I’m afraid—” “You’re afraid?” “Yes,” Beautrelet confessed, frankly, “it’s my nerves giving way—I generally manage to control them—but, to-day, the silence—the excitement—And then, since I was stabbed by that magistrate’s clerk—But it will pass off—There, it’s passing now—” He succeeded in rising to his feet and Valméras dragged him out of the room. They groped their way along the passage, so softly that neither could hear a sound made by the other. A faint glimmer, however, seemed to light the hall for which they were making. Valméras put his head round the corner. It was a night-light placed at the foot of the stairs, on a little table which showed through the frail branches of a palm tree. “Halt!” whispered Valméras. Near the night-light, a man stood sentry, carrying a gun. Had he seen them? Perhaps. At least, something must have alarmed him, for he brought the gun to his shoulder. Beautrelet had fallen on his knees, against a tub containing a plant, and he remained quite still, with his heart thumping against his chest. Meanwhile, the silence and the absence of all movement reassured the man. He lowered his weapon. But his head was still turned in the direction of the tub. Terrible minutes passed: ten minutes, fifteen. A moonbeam had glided through a window on the staircase. And, suddenly, Beautrelet became aware that the moonbeam was shifting imperceptibly, and that, before fifteen, before ten more minutes had elapsed, it would be shining full in his face. Great drops of perspiration fell from his forehead on his trembling hands. His anguish was such that he was on the point of getting up and running away—But, remembering that Valméras was there, he sought him with his eyes and was astounded to see him, or rather to imagine him, creeping in the dark, under cover of the statues and plants. He was already at the foot of the stairs, within a few steps of the man. What was he going to do? To pass in spite of all? To go upstairs alone and release the prisoner? But could he pass? Beautrelet no longer saw him and he had an impression that something was about to take place, something that seemed foreboded also by the silence, which hung heavier, more awful than before.