“That is a good idea, my friend,” she said.  “Thank you.  And au revoir, monsieur; we will take charge of your future if you behave sensibly.”

At this moment, however, she was thunderstruck by an extravagant and seemingly senseless incident.  Morange, having shown Alexandre out of the little salon, in advance of himself, turned round towards her with the sudden grimace of a madman, revealing his insanity by the distortion of his countenance.  And in a low, familiar, sneering voice, he stammered in her face:  “Ha! ha!  Blaise at the bottom of the hole!  He speaks, he has spoken to me!  Ha! ha! the somersault! you would have the somersault!  And you shall have it again, the somersault, the somersault!”

Then he disappeared, following Alexandre.

She had listened to him agape with wonder.  It was all so unforeseen, so idiotic, that at first she did not understand it.  But afterwards what a flash of light came to her!  That which Morange had referred to was the murder yonder—­the thing to which they had never referred, the monstrous thing which they had kept buried for fourteen years past, which their glances only had confessed, but which, all of a sudden, he had cast in her teeth with the grimace of a madman.  What was the meaning of the poor fool’s diabolical rebellion, the dim threat which she had felt passing like a gust from an abyss?  She turned frightfully pale, she intuitively foresaw some frightful revenge of destiny, that destiny which, only a moment previously, she had believed to be her minion.  Yes, it was surely that.  And she felt herself carried fourteen years backward, and she remained standing, quivering, icy cold, listening to the sounds which arose from the works, waiting for the awful thud of the fall, even as on the distant day when she had listened and waited for the other to be crushed and killed.

Meantime Morange, with his discreet, short step, was leading Alexandre away, and speaking to him in a quiet, good-natured voice.

“I must ask your pardon for going first, but I have to show you the way.  Oh! this is a very intricate place, with stairs and passages whose turns and twists never end.  The passage now turns to the left, you see.”

Then, on reaching the gallery where the darkness was complete, he affected anger in the most natural manner possible.

“Ah! well, that is just their way.  They haven’t yet lighted up this part.  The switch is at the other end.  Fortunately I know where to step, for I have been going backwards and forwards here for the last forty years.  Mind follow me carefully.”

Thereupon, at each successive step, he warned the other what he ought to do, guiding him along in his obliging way without the faintest tremor in his voice.

“Don’t let go of me, turn to the left.—­Now we merely have to go straight ahead.—­Only, wait a moment, a barrier intersects the gallery, and there is a gate.—­There we are!  I’m opening the gate, you hear?—­Follow me, I’ll go first.”