But though I was no less convinced than Stroeve that the connection
between Strickland and Blanche would end disastrously, I did not expect
the issue to take the tragic form it did. The summer came, breathless
and sultry, and even at night there was no coolness to rest one’s jaded
nerves. The sun-baked streets seemed to give back the heat that had
beat down on them during the day, and the passers-by dragged their feet
along them wearily. I had not seen Strickland for weeks. Occupied with
other things, I had ceased to think of him and his affairs. Dirk, with
his vain lamentations, had begun to bore me, and I avoided his society.
It was a sordid business, and I was not inclined to trouble myself with
it further.
One morning I was working. I sat in my Pyjamas. My thoughts wandered,
and I thought of the sunny beaches of Brittany and the freshness of the
sea. By my side was the empty bowl in which the concierge had brought
me my _café au lait_ and the fragment of croissant which I had not had
appetite enough to eat. I heard the concierge in the next room emptying
my bath. There was a tinkle at my bell, and I left her to open the
door. In a moment I heard Stroeve’s voice asking if I was in. Without
moving, I shouted to him to come. He entered the room quickly, and came
up to the table at which I sat.
“She’s killed herself,” he said hoarsely.
“What do you mean?” I cried, startled.
He made movements with his lips as though he were speaking, but no
sound issued from them. He gibbered like an idiot. My heart thumped
against my ribs, and, I do not know why, I flew into a temper.
“For God’s sake, collect yourself, man,” I said. “What on earth are you
talking about?”
He made despairing gestures with his hands, but still no words came
from his mouth. He might have been struck dumb. I do not know what came
over me; I took him by the shoulders and shook him. Looking back, I am
vexed that I made such a fool of myself; I suppose the last restless
nights had shaken my nerves more than I knew.
“Let me sit down,” he gasped at length.
I filled a glass with St. Galmier, and gave it to him to drink. I held
it to his mouth as though he were a child. He gulped down a mouthful,
and some of it was spilt on his shirt-front.
“Who’s killed herself?”
I do not know why I asked, for I knew whom he meant. He made an effort
to collect himself.
“They had a row last night. He went away.”
“Is she dead?”
“No; they’ve taken her to the hospital.”
“Then what are you talking about?” I cried impatiently. “Why did you
say she’d killed herself?”
“Don’t be cross with me. I can’t tell you anything if you talk to me
like that.”
I clenched my hands, seeking to control my irritation. I attempted a
smile.
“I’m sorry. Take your time. Don’t hurry, there’s a good fellow.”
His round blue eyes behind the spectacles were ghastly with terror. The
magnifying-glasses he wore distorted them.
“When the concierge went up this morning to take a letter she could get
no answer to her ring. She heard someone groaning. The door wasn’t
locked, and she went in. Blanche was lying on the bed. She’d been
frightfully sick. There was a bottle of oxalic acid on the table.”
Stroeve hid his face in his hands and swayed backwards and forwards,
groaning.
“Was she conscious?”
“Yes. Oh, if you knew how she’s suffering! I can’t bear it. I can’t
bear it.”
His voice rose to a shriek.
“Damn it all, you haven’t got to bear it,” I cried impatiently. “She’s
got to bear it.”
“How can you be so cruel?”
“What have you done?”
“They sent for a doctor and for me, and they told the police. I’d given
the concierge twenty francs, and told her to send for me if anything
happened.”
He paused a minute, and I saw that what he had to tell me was very hard
to say.
“When I went she wouldn’t speak to me. She told them to send me away. I
swore that I forgave her everything, but she wouldn’t listen. She tried
to beat her head against the wall. The doctor told me that I mustn’t
remain with her. She kept on saying, ‘Send him away!’ I went, and
waited in the studio. And when the ambulance came and they put her on a
stretcher, they made me go in the kitchen so that she shouldn’t know I
was there.”
While I dressed—for Stroeve wished me to go at once with him to the
hospital—he told me that he had arranged for his wife to have a private
room, so that she might at least be spared the sordid promiscuity of a
ward. On our way he explained to me why he desired my presence; if she
still refused to see him, perhaps she would see me. He begged me to
repeat to her that he loved her still; he would reproach her for
nothing, but desired only to help her; he made no claim on her, and on
her recovery would not seek to induce her to return to him; she would
be perfectly free.
But when we arrived at the hospital, a gaunt, cheerless building, the
mere sight of which was enough to make one’s heart sick, and after
being directed from this official to that, up endless stairs and
through long, bare corridors, found the doctor in charge of the case,
we were told that the patient was too ill to see anyone that day. The
doctor was a little bearded man in white, with an offhand manner. He
evidently looked upon a case as a case, and anxious relatives as a
nuisance which must be treated with firmness. Moreover, to him the
affair was commonplace; it was just an hysterical woman who had
quarrelled with her lover and taken poison; it was constantly
happening. At first he thought that Dirk was the cause of the disaster,
and he was needlessly brusque with him. When I explained that he was
the husband, anxious to forgive, the doctor looked at him suddenly,
with curious, searching eyes. I seemed to see in them a hint of
mockery; it was true that Stroeve had the head of the husband who is
deceived. The doctor faintly shrugged his shoulders.
“There is no immediate danger,” he said, in answer to our questioning.
“One doesn’t know how much she took. It may be that she will get off
with a fright. Women are constantly trying to commit suicide for love,
but generally they take care not to succeed. It’s generally a gesture
to arouse pity or terror in their lover.”
There was in his tone a frigid contempt. It was obvious that to him
Blanche Stroeve was only a unit to be added to the statistical list of
attempted suicides in the city of Paris during the current year. He was
busy, and could waste no more time on us. He told us that if we came at
a certain hour next day, should Blanche be better, it might be possible
for her husband to see her.