It was towards the late afternoon of a Saturday, when the streets were
full of people going to and from the shops in a marketing quarter, that
Madame Glozel came to him and said:
"M'sieu', I have an idea, and you will not think it strange, for you have
a kind heart. There is a woman--look you, it is a sad, sad story hers.
She is ill and dying in a room a little way down the street. But yes, I
am sure she is dying--of heart disease it is. She came here first when
the illness took her, but she could not afford to stay. She went to those
cheaper lodgings down the street. She used to be on the stage over in the
States, and then she came back here, and there was a man--married to him
or not I do not know, and I will not think. Well, the man--the brute--he
left her when she got ill--but yes, forsook her absolutely! He was a
land-agent or something like that, and all very fine to your face, to
promise and to pretend--just make-believe. When her sickness got worse,
off he went with 'Au revoir, my dear--I will be back to supper.' Supper!
If she'd waited for her supper till he came back, she'd have waited as
long as I've done for the fortune the gipsy promised me forty years ago.
Away he went, the rogue, without a thought of her, and with another
woman. That's what hurt her most of all. Straight from her that could
hardly drag herself about--ah, yes, and has been as handsome a woman as
ever was!--straight from her he went to a slut.
Pages:
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301