Bregeac was waiting for her in his study on the first floor, a large room with closed shutters, lighted by an electric light.
“Sit down,” he said.
“No.”
“Sit down. You’re tired.”
“Tell me at once what you want to say and let me go back to my room,” she said coldly.
Bregeac walked up and down the room with an harassed and anxious air. He watched her furtively, with as much hostility as passion, as a man who finds himself balked by an indomitable will. Also he was full of pity for her. [[188]]
He came to her and putting his hand on her shoulder forced her to sit down and sat down himself.
“You’re right,” he said. “It will not take long. What I have to tell you can be said in a few words. You can then decide.”
They were near one another, yet further apart than two bitter enemies. Bregeac was aware of it. The words he was trying to speak would only widen the abyss between them.
He clenched his fists and said: “So you still do not understand that we are surrounded by enemies and that the situation cannot last?”