Throughout this discussion I had not taken my eyes off Mlle. Simone de R—, who had not taken part in it, but, erect and motionless, seemed in her studied indifference to be lying in wait for an enemy like a sentinel at the top of a tower. Would she, by any chance, dare to intervene, when they were not perhaps aiming at her? She did intervene brusquely with this denial:
“It isn’t true.”
Every one turned to look at her. Without any embarrassment at all, throwing off constraint like a cloak, and taking a straight course, like one whom no obstacle could stop, she continued, even before her father, guessing her purpose, had an opportunity to interrupt her:
“It was I who was engaged to M. Cernay, and it was he who broke our engagement. Mme. Cernay, of whom you speak with such ignorance and injustice, could not have been replaced in his heart. He told me so, and I understood him. That is all. He did not commit suicide.”
She made this avowal in a firm and rapid manner. Every one rose from the table. Immediately afterwards she left the room with her father.
Cernay had deemed her worthy of knowing the truth then. He had felt that the knowledge would ennoble her. Did she know, as I did, from the notebooks, of the life and death of Raymonde? I was inclined to believe so. However that may be, to render homage to her successful rival, she had just done one of the most difficult things a woman can possibly do—make public avowal of having been jilted by her lover.
And I saw on her courageous face that night, a as shows on high mountains after sunset, the divine rejection of Raymonde’s soul.
* * *
I have just paid another visit to the Sleeping Woods.
First I rang at the lodge, which was closed. As no one answered, I took the road toward the chateau, whose open windows I could see through the oaks. Mme. Mairieux received me with her customary affability.