She was crying softly as she told me. Mademoiselle Rose—Madame Holt, she should say—had rushed in “toute émotionnée.” She could not wait for me. She had come in a car. She had written the note and was gone again.
Did Suzanne know what the note was about?
Ah, yes. Quel dommage! But la vie cannot be kept within fixed bounds. Pots boil over. All this in her hard Norman speech. She was fatalistic, but still she wiped her eyes.
Monsieur would not think less of Madame Holt because of this, would he?
I assured her that I was not a judge.
“La pauvre petite!” Suzanne exclaimed, with a sob.
She had been so assiduous in spoiling Rose’s daughter when they were with me that I naturally thought these words referred to the younger of them. But I was wrong. It was of the older Rose that she was still thinking, for she went on more brightly: “Mais, c’est bon. Maintenant elle sera heureuse.”
“Will she?” I asked.
Mais oui. Suzanne was certain of it. Madame Holt would not have taken so great a step if she were not to be happier for it.
I was astounded at her confidence.