It was a mystery. They went back to the Rue Maugrabine. On the way Fortinbras asked:
“Why have you never told me what you were doing?”
“I took it for granted that you knew, and that, par délicatesse, the subject was not to be mentioned between us.”
“And Clothilde?”
But Bigourdin was one of those who kept the left hand in ignorance of the generous actions of the right. He threw out his great arms, to the disturbance of pedestrian traffic.
“Tell Clothilde? What do you take me for?”
A day or two of continuous strain and hopelessness, and then under the auspices of the Pompes Funèbres and the clergy of the parish, the poor body of Cécile Fortinbras was laid to rest. Not till then did any one send word to Félise. Even Madame Robineau agreed that it was best she should not know. As she had left Chartres, self-willed and ungovernable, so, on the receipt of the news of her mother’s death, might she leave Brantôme. Her appearance amid these squalid happenings would be inconvenable.
“I have no reason to love Félise,” she added. “But she is a young girl of our family, and it is not correct that she should see such things.”
When the train carrying Madame Robineau back to Chartres steamed out of the Gare Montparnasse, both men drew a breath of relief.
“Mon ami,” said Bigourdin. “The Bible taught the Church the beautiful history of Jesus Christ. The Church told a Bishop. The Bishop told a priest. The priest told the wife of the sub-prefect. The wife of the sub-prefect told the wife of the mayor. The wife of the mayor told the elderly, unmarried sister of the corn-chandler, and the unmarried sister of the corn-chandler told Clothilde. And that’s all she (Clothilde) knows about Christianity. Still,” he added, in his judicious way, “she is a woman of remarkable virtue. She has a strong sense of duty. Without a particle of love animating her heart, she has just spent three days and nights without sleep, food or fresh air. It’s fine, all the same.”