“Oh, forgive me … forgive; I have hurt you. … I knew that you were in difficulties, and … I wanted to help you.”
But Laura, gasping for breath, felt that she was fainting. She cast round with her eyes for somewhere to sit down. Bernard, whose gaze was fixed upon her, understood her look. He sprang towards a small armchair at the foot of the bed, with a rapid movement pushed it towards her, and she dropped heavily into it.
At this moment there occurred a grotesque incident which I hesitate to relate, but it was decisive of Laura’s and Bernard’s relationship, by unexpectedly relieving them of their embarrassment. I shall therefore not attempt to embellish the scene by any artifices.
For the price which Laura paid for her room (I mean, which the hotelkeeper asked her) one could not have expected the furniture to be elegant, but one might have hoped it would be solid. Now the small armchair, which Bernard pushed towards Laura, was somewhat unsteady on its feet; that is to say, it had a great propensity to fold back one of its legs, as a bird does under its wing—which is natural enough in a bird, but unusual and regrettable in an armchair; this one, moreover, hid its infirmity as best it could beneath a thick fringe. Laura was well acquainted with her armchair, and knew that it must be handled with extreme precaution; but in her agitation she forgot this and only remembered it when she felt the chair giving way beneath her. She suddenly gave a little cry—quite different from the long moan she had uttered just before, slipped to one side, and a moment later found herself sitting on the floor, between the arms of Bernard, who had hurried to the rescue. Bashful, but amused, he had been obliged to put one knee on the ground. Laura’s face therefore happened to be quite close to his; he watched her blush. She made an effort to get up; he helped her.
“You’ve not hurt yourself?”
“No; thanks to you. This armchair is ridiculous; it has been mended once already. … I think if the leg is put quite straight, it will hold.”
“I’ll arrange it,” said Bernard. “There! … Will you try it?” Then, thinking better of it: “No; allow me. It would be safer for me to try it first. Look! It’s all right now. I can move my legs” (which he did, laughing). Then, as he rose: “Sit down now, and if you’ll allow me to stay a moment or two longer, I’ll take this chair. I’ll sit near you, so that I shall be able to prevent you from falling. Don’t be frightened. … I wish I could do more for you.”
There was so much ardour in his voice, so much reserve in his manners, and in his movements so much grace, that Laura could not forbear a smile.
“You haven’t told me your name yet.”
“Bernard.”
“Yes. But your family name?”
“I have no family.”
“Well, your parents’ name.”
“I have no parents. That is, I am what the child you are expecting will be—a bastard.”
The smile vanished from Laura’s face; she was outraged by this insistent determination to force an entrance into her intimacy and to violate the secret of her life.
“But how do you know? … Who told you? … You have no right to know. …”
Bernard was launched now; he spoke loudly and boldly:
“I know both what my friend Olivier knows and what your friend Edouard knows. Only each of them as yet knows only half your secret. I am probably the only person besides yourself to know the whole of it. … So you see,” he added more gently, “it’s essential that I should be your friend.”
“Oh, how can people be so indiscreet?” murmured Laura sadly. “But … if you haven’t seen Edouard, he can’t have spoken to you. Has he written to you? … Is it he who has sent you?” …
Bernard had given himself away; he had spoken too quickly and had not been able to resist bragging a little. He shook his head. Laura’s face grew still darker. At that moment a knock was heard at the door.
Whether they will or no, a link is created between two creatures who experience a common emotion. Bernard felt himself trapped; Laura was vexed at being surprised in company. They looked at each other like two accomplices. Another knock was heard. Both together said:
“Come in.”
For some minutes Edouard had been listening outside the door, astonished at hearing voices in Laura’s room. Bernard’s last sentences had explained everything. He could not doubt their meaning; he could not doubt that the speaker was the stealer of his suitcase. His mind was immediately made up. For Edouard is one of those beings whose faculties, which seem benumbed in the ordinary routine of daily life, spring into activity at the call of the unexpected. He opened the door therefore, but remained on the threshold, smiling and looking alternately at Laura and Bernard, who had both risen.
“Allow me, my dear Laura,” said he, with a gesture as though to put off any effusions till later. “I must first say a word or two to this gentleman, if he will be so good as to step into the passage for a moment.”
His smile became more ironical when Bernard joined him.
“I thought I should find you here.”
Bernard understood that the game was up. There was nothing for him to do but to put a bold face on it, which he did with the feeling that he was playing his last card:
“I hoped I should meet you.”
“In the first place—if you haven’t done so already (for I’ll do you the credit of
