Her hand in his was chill and passive; he felt in her the cold shudder of shame.
“Ah,” he said, “from me—from me you do not resent such saving?”
“Resent?—from you?” she said gently. “No, no; it is of her I am thinking. No; you did well, very well to save her—if we may call it saving. You have washed the spots from my respectability. We both know the value of such washing; but it is best—best to have us all respectable,”—a bitter smile touched her lips,—“since it is that we prize so. And were there no other inducements?”
“There was a condition,”—he had to nerve himself to the speaking of it,—“that she did not see you again. She has, by her own wish, broken the bond between you. She has left your life.”
Madame Vicaud clenched her hands, and her chin trembled.
“Yet—let me tell you,” he said, “I believe that there is more hope for Claire so left in the evil and abasement she has made about herself than if she were to have remained with you; all the forces of her nature were engaged in resistance, or in a pretended submission that bided its time. Now she must do battle with the world on a level where life will teach her lessons she can understand. She has severed herself completely from you—she has completely fulfilled herself. Some new blossoming may follow; who knows?”
“But no blossoming for me. I shall not see it,” said Madame Vicaud. “My life has been useless.”
Useless? He wondered over her past, her long efforts, this wreck.
Could goodness, however clear-sighted, however divine in its comprehension and pity, prevent evil from working itself out, fulfilling itself? Was not its working out perhaps its salvation?
“How can you tell?” he said. “You have done your work for her.”