Part 59 (2/2)
”Saved you from what? From whom?”
”From that man.”
”Bresson?”
”Yes, he held me by his threats.... I met him at a friend's house ...
and I had the madness to listen to him. Oh, there was nothing that you cannot forgive!... But I wrote him two letters ... you shall see them....
I bought them back ... you know how.... Oh, have pity on me.... I have been so unhappy!”
”You! You! Suzanne!”
He raised his clenched fists to her, ready to beat her, ready to kill her. But his arms fell to his sides and he murmured again:
”You, Suzanne!... You!... Is it possible?”
In short, abrupt sentences, she told the heartbreaking and commonplace story: her terrified awakening in the face of the man's infamy, her remorse, her madness; and she also described Alice's admirable conduct: the girl suspecting her mistress's despair, forcing a confession from her, writing to Lupin and contriving this story of a robbery to save her from Bresson's clutches.
”You, Suzanne, you!” repeated M. d'Imblevalle, bent double, overwhelmed.
”How could you...?”
On the evening of the same day, the steamer _Ville de Londres_, from Calais to Dover, was gliding slowly over the motionless water. The night was dark and calm. Peaceful clouds were suggested rather than seen above the boat and, all around, light veils of mist separated her from the infinite s.p.a.ce in which the moon and stars were shedding their cold, but invisible radiance.
Most of the pa.s.sengers had gone to the cabins and saloons. A few of them, however, bolder than the rest, were walking up and down the deck or else dozing under thick rugs in the big rocking-chairs. Here and there the gleam showed of a cigar; and, mingling with the gentle breath of the wind, came the murmur of voices that dared not rise high in the great solemn silence.
One of the pa.s.sengers, who was walking to and fro with even strides, stopped beside a person stretched out on a bench, looked at her and, when she moved slightly, said:
”I thought you were asleep, Mlle. Alice.”
”No, Mr. Shears, I do not feel sleepy. I was thinking.”
”What of? Is it indiscreet to ask?”
”I was thinking of Mme. d'Imblevalle. How sad she must be! Her life is ruined.”
”Not at all, not at all,” he said, eagerly. ”Her fault is not one of those which can never be forgiven. M. d'Imblevalle will forget that lapse. Already, when we left, he was looking at her less harshly.”
”Perhaps ... but it will take long to forget ... and she is suffering.”
”Are you very fond of her?”
”Very. That gave me such strength to smile when I was trembling with fear, to look you in the face when I wanted to avoid your glance.”
”And are you unhappy at leaving her?”
”Most unhappy. I have no relations or friends.... I had only her....”
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