But why, then, this cry of death when she was alive and well? Why that scream of agony before she had appeared standing on the threshold of the tower? Strange to say, I found no one in the Court of the Bold when I crossed it. No one then had heard the pistol shot! No one had heard the cries! Where was M. Darzac? Where was Old Bob? Was he still working in the lower basement of the Round Tower? I might have believed so, for I perceived a light in the window of the tower. But Mattoni--Mattoni--had he heard nothing, either?--Mattoni, who kept watch at the postern of the gardener? And the Berniers? I saw neither of them. And the door of the Square Tower still stood open. Ah, the soft murmur, “Mother! Mother! Mother!” And I heard her voice answer back, tenderly, though choked with sobs, “My boy! My little one!” They had not even taken the precaution to close the door of Old Bob’s parlor. It was into that room where I had talked with her a little while before that she had led her child. And they were there alone, clasped in each other’s arms, repeating over and over again, “Mother!” and “My little one!” And then they murmured broken sentences, phrases without end--with the divine foolishness of a mother and her child. “Then, you were not dead!” That was sufficient to make them both fall to sobbing. And then, how they embraced each other, as though to make up for all the years they had lost. I heard him murmur, “You know, mamma, it was not true that I stole!” And one would have thought from the sound of his voice that he was still the little lad of nine years--my poor Rouletabille. “No, my darling--you never stole! My little boy! my little boy!” Ah, it was not my fault that I heard--but my heart was torn in two as I listened. * * * * * But where was Bernier? I entered the lodge from the left, for I wished to know the meaning of the cry and of the shot which I had heard. Mere Bernier was at the back of the room which was lighted only by a tiny taper. She was like a black bundle on a sofa. She must have been in bed when the shot was heard and she had hastily donned some clothing. I picked up the taper and brought it near. Her features were distorted with fear. “Where is Bernier?” I asked. “He is there,” she replied, trembling. “There. Where is that?” But she made no answer. I took a few steps toward the interior of the lodge and I stumbled. I bent down to know what I had stepped upon and found out that it was Mere Bernier’s potatoes. I lowered the light and looked at the floor; it was strewn with potatoes; they had rolled everywhere. Could it be that Mme. Bernier had not gathered them up after Rouletabille had emptied out the bag? I arose and turned to Mere Bernier. “Someone fired off a pistol!” I said. “What has happened?” “I do not know,” she responded. And, at that moment, I heard someone open the door of the tower and Pere Bernier stood on the threshold. “Ah! it is you, M. Sainclair?”