Constance meantime was busying herself, calling the maid, and requesting her to bring some warm water in order that they might wash the sufferer’s blood-stained brow.  It was impossible to think of taking off his jacket; they had to content themselves with doing the little they could to improve his appearance pending the arrival of the doctor.  And during these preparations, Beauchene, haunted, worried by the accident, again began to speak of it.

“It is incomprehensible.  One can hardly believe such a stupid mischance to be possible.  Down below the transmission gearing gets out of order, and this prevents the mechanician from sending the trap up again.  Then, up above, Bonnard gets angry, calls, and at last decides to go down in a fury when he finds that nobody answers him.  Then Morange arrives, flies into a temper, and goes down in his turn, exasperated at receiving no answer to his calls for Bonnard.  Poor Bonnard! he’s sobbing; he wanted to kill himself when he saw the fine result of his absence.”

At this point Beauchene abruptly broke off and turned to Constance.  “But what about you?” he asked.  “Morange told me that he had left you up above near the trap.”

She was standing in front of her husband, in the full light which came through the window.  And again did her eyelids beat while a little nervous twinge slightly twisted her mouth on the left side.  That was all.

“I?  Why I had gone down the passage.  I came back here at once, as Morange knows very well.”

A moment previously, Morange, annihilated, his legs failing him, had sunk upon a chair.  Incapable of rendering any help, he sat there silent, awaiting the end.  When he heard Constance lie in that quiet fashion, he looked at her.  The assassin was herself, he no longer doubted it.  And at that moment he felt a craving to proclaim it, to cry it aloud.

“Why, he thought that he had begged you to remain there on the watch,” Beauchene resumed, addressing his wife.

“At all events his words never reached me,” Constance duly answered.  “Should I have moved if he had asked me to do that?” And turning towards the accountant she, in her turn, had the courage to fix her pale eyes upon him.  “Just remember, Morange, you rushed down like a madman, you said nothing to me, and I went on my way.”

Beneath those pale eyes, keen as steel, which dived into his own, Morange was seized with abject fear.  All his weakness, his cowardice of heart returned.  Could he accuse her of such an atrocious crime?  He pictured the consequences.  And then, too, he no longer knew if he were right or not; his poor maniacal mind was lost.

“It is possible,” he stammered, “I may simply have thought I spoke.  And it must be so since it can’t be otherwise.”

Then he relapsed into silence with a gesture of utter lassitude.  The complicity demanded was accepted.  For a moment he thought of rising to see if Blaise still breathed; but he did not dare.  Deep peacefulness fell upon the room.