I then remembered Massignac's terrible prophecy: "If I die, it means the death of Noël Dorgeroux's secret. We shall perish together." In the anguish of peril, at the very bottom of the abyss, he had conceived the abominable idea and had the courage to carry out his threat. My uncle's work was utterly destroyed. Nevertheless I darted forward, as though I could still avert the disaster by saving the scoundrel's life. But the crowd had seized upon its prey and was passing it from hand to hand, like a howling pack worrying and rending the animal which it had hunted down. I succeeded in shouldering my way through with the aid of two policemen and then only because Massignac's body had ended by falling into the hands of a band of less infuriated assailants, who were embarrassed by the sight of the dying man. They formed themselves into a group to protect his death-struggles and one of them even, raising his voice above the din, called to me: "Quick, quick!" he said, when I came near. "He is speaking your name." At the first glance at the mass of bleeding flesh that lay on one of the tiers, between two rows of seats, I perceived that there was no hope and that it was a miracle that this corpse was still breathing. Still it was uttering my name. I caught the syllables as I stooped over the face mauled beyond recognition and, speaking slowly and distinctly, I said: "It's I, Massignac, it's Victorien Beaugrand. What have you to say to me?" He managed to lift his eyelids, looked at me with a dim eye which closed again immediately and stammered: "A letter . . . a letter . . . sewn in the lining. . . ." I felt the rags of cloth which remained of his jacket. Massignac had done well to sew up the letter, for all the other papers had left his pocket. I at once read my name on the envelope. "Open it . . . open it," he said, in a whisper. I tore open the envelope. There were only a few lines scribbled in a large hand across the sheet of paper, a few lines of which I took the time to read only the first, which said: "Bérangère knows the formula." "Bérangère!" I exclaimed. "But where is she? Do you know?" I at once understood the imprudence of which I had been guilty in thus mentioning the girl's name aloud; and, bending lower down, I put my ear to Massignac's mouth to catch his last words. He repeated the name of Bérangère time after time, in the effort to pronounce the answer which I asked for and which his memory perhaps refused to supply. His lips moved convulsively and he stammered forth some hoarse sounds which were more like a death-rattle but which yet enabled me to distinguish the words: "Bérangère. . . . Château . . . Château de Pré-Bony. . . ."