The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard. Anatole France

to recover breath.

      Madame Trepof came to me on the road, took my arm, and drew me a little away from the party. Then, very suddenly, she said to me in a tone of voice I had never heard before:

      “Do not think that I am a wicked woman. My George knows that I am a good mother.”

      We walked side by side for a moment in silence. She looked up, and I saw that she was crying.

      “Madame,” I said to her, “look at this soil which has been burned and cracked by five long months of fiery heat. A little white lily has sprung up from it.”

      And I pointed with my cane to the frail stalk, tipped by a double blossom.

      “Your heart,” I said, “however arid it be, bears also its white lily; and that is reason enough why I do not believe that you are what you say—a wicked woman.”

      “Yes, yes, yes!” she cried, with the obstinacy of a child—“I am a wicked woman. But I am ashamed to appear so before you who are so good—so very, very good.”

      “You do not know anything at all about it,” I said to her.

      “I know it! I know all about you, Monsieur Bonnard!” she declared, with a smile.

      And she jumped back into her lettica.