The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard. Anatole France
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to recover breath.
Madame Trepof came to me on the road, took my arm, and drew me a little away from the party. Then, very suddenly, she said to me in a tone of voice I had never heard before:
“Do not think that I am a wicked woman. My George knows that I am a good mother.”
We walked side by side for a moment in silence. She looked up, and I saw that she was crying.
“Madame,” I said to her, “look at this soil which has been burned and cracked by five long months of fiery heat. A little white lily has sprung up from it.”
And I pointed with my cane to the frail stalk, tipped by a double blossom.
“Your heart,” I said, “however arid it be, bears also its white lily; and that is reason enough why I do not believe that you are what you say—a wicked woman.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” she cried, with the obstinacy of a child—“I am a wicked woman. But I am ashamed to appear so before you who are so good—so very, very good.”
“You do not know anything at all about it,” I said to her.
“I know it! I know all about you, Monsieur Bonnard!” she declared, with a smile.
And she jumped back into her lettica.
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