Whatever Seraphine might be, she had spoken rightly.
Then his powerlessness to avenge his daughter completed his prostration.
It was as if he had been beaten almost to the point of death; every one
of his limbs was bruised, his head seemed empty, his heart cold and
scarce able to beat. And he sank into a sort of second childhood,
clasping his hands and stammering plaintively, terrified, and beseeching
compassion, like one whose sufferings are too hard to bear.
And when Mathieu sought to console him he muttered: "Oh, it is all over.
They have both gone, one after the other, and I alone am guilty. The
first time it was I who lied to Reine, telling her that her mother was
travelling; and then she in her turn lied to me the other day with that
story of an invitation to a chateau in the country. Ah! if eight years
ago I had only opposed my poor Valerie's madness, my poor Reine would
still be alive to-day. . . . Yes, it is all my fault; I alone killed them
by my weakness. I am their murderer."
Shivering, deathly cold, he went on amid his sobs: "And, wretched fool
that I have been, I have killed them through loving them too much.
Pages:
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349