The paralysed woman had not made any fresh attempt to reveal to them
the infamy concealed behind the dreary tranquillity of the Thursday
evenings. An eye-witness of the tortures of the murderers, and
foreseeing the crisis which would burst out, one day or another, brought
on by the fatal succession of events, she at length understood that
there was no necessity for her intervention. And from that moment, she
remained in the background allowing the consequences of the murder of
Camille, which were to kill the assassins in their turn, to take their
course. She only prayed heaven, to grant her sufficient life to enable
her to be present at the violent catastrophe she foresaw; her only
remaining desire was to feast her eyes on the supreme suffering that
would undo Therese and Laurent.
On this particular evening, Grivet went and seated himself beside her,
and talked for a long time, he, as usual, asking the questions and
supplying the answers himself. But he failed to get even a glance from
her. When half-past eleven struck, the guests quickly rose to their
feet.
"We are so comfortable with you," said Grivet, "that no one ever thinks
of leaving."
"The fact is," remarked Michaud by way of supporting the old clerk, "I
never feel drowsy here, although I generally go to bed at nine o'clock.
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