The sound approached.
"Stand well back," she said, "and don't stir."
The boy whispered:
"What's that in your hand? A revolver? Mother, you're not going to fire?"
"I ought to, I ought to," said Véronique. "He's such a monster! . . . It's as with his mother . . . I ought to have . . . we shall perhaps regret it." And she added, almost unconsciously, "He killed your grandfather."
"Oh, mother, mother!"
She supported him, to prevent his falling, and amid the silence she heard the boy sobbing on her breast and stammering:
"Never mind . . . don't fire, mother . . . ."
"Here he comes, darling, here he comes; look at him."
The other passed. He was walking slowly, a little bent, listening for the least sound. He appeared to Véronique to be the exact same size as her son; and this time, when
