Inexplicable! It is inexplicable, this monster
of a moon-struck skull! We shall never get to
comprehend it. I shall not return to my former
residence. What does it matter to me? I am
afraid of encountering that man again, and I shall
not run the risk.
I shall not risk it! I shall not risk it!
I shall not risk it!
And if he returns, if he takes possession of his shop,
who is to prove that my furniture was on his premises?
There is only my testimony against him; and I feel
that that is not above suspicion.
Ah! no! This kind of existence was no longer
possible. I was not able to guard the secret
of what I had seen. I could not continue to live
like the rest of the world, with the fear upon me
that those scenes might be re-enacted.
I have come to consult the doctor who directs this
lunatic asylum, and I have told him everything.
After he had interrogated me for a long time, he said
to me:
“Will you consent, monsieur, to remain here
for some time?”
“Most willingly, monsieur.”
“You have some means?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Will you have isolated apartments?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Would you care to receive any friends?”
“No, monsieur, no, nobody. The man from
Rouen might take it into his head to pursue me here
to be revenged on me.”
And I have been alone, alone, all, all alone, for
three months. I am growing tranquil by degrees.
I have no longer any fears. If the antiquary
should become mad ... and if he should be brought into
this asylum! Even prisons themselves are not
places of security.
Noon had just struck. The school-door opened
and the youngsters tumbled out rolling over each other
in their haste to get out quickly. But instead
of promptly dispersing and going home to dinner as
was their daily wont, they stopped a few paces off,
broke up into knots and set to whispering.
The fact was that that morning Simon, the son of La
Blanchotte, had, for the first time, attended school.
They had all of them in their families heard talk
of La Blanchotte; and, although in public she was
welcome enough, the mothers among themselves treated
her with compassion of a somewhat disdainful kind,
which the children had caught without in the least
knowing why.
As for Simon himself, they did not know him, for he
never went abroad, and did not go galloping about
with them through the streets of the village or along
the banks of the river. Therefore, they loved
him but little; and it was with a certain delight,
mingled with considerable astonishment, that they
met and that they recited to each other this phrase,
set afoot by a lad of fourteen or fifteen who appeared
to know all, all about it, so sagaciously did he wink.
“You know ... Simon ... well, he has no
papa.”
