Chapter 34 Thirty-four

Although I thought, like Stroeve, that Strickland's relationship with Blanche would end in disaster, I did not expect the event to turn out to be so tragic.Summer is here, and the weather is so depressing that it is breathless, and there is not even a trace of coolness at night, so that people's tired nerves can get a little rest.The sun-baked streets seemed to radiate back the heat absorbed during the day; the passers-by dragged their feet wearily.I did not see Strickland again for several weeks.I don't even think about this guy and their stuff because I'm so busy with other things.Dirk sighed and sighed when he saw me, and it started to be annoying; I tried to avoid him and stay with him as much as possible.I feel so dirty about the whole thing that I don't want to worry about it any more.

One morning, I was working in my pajamas.But my thoughts wandered and wandered.I think of Brittany's sunny shores and clear waters.Beside me was the empty coffee-milk bowl and a piece of leftover croissant that the concierge had brought me.My appetite was so bad that I couldn't finish it.In the next room the housekeeper was draining my tub.Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and I asked her to open the door for me.It was not long before I heard Stroeve's voice asking if I was at home.I yelled for him to come in without leaving my seat.Stroeve came in hastily and walked up to the table where I was sitting.

"She's dead," he said hoarsely. "What did you say?" I exclaimed in surprise. His lips moved as if to say something, but no sound came out.He babbled nonsense like an idiot.My heart was beating wildly in my chest, and for some reason, I suddenly became angry. "For God's sake, can you calm down?" I said, "What the hell are you talking about?" He made several desperate gestures with his hands, and still could not utter a single sentence.He seemed to have been suddenly frightened and became dumb.I don't know why I was so angry, I grabbed his shoulder and shook it desperately.I guess I hadn't had a good night's rest the previous nights, and my nerves were breaking down.

"Let me sit for a while," he said breathlessly at last. I poured him a glass of St. Camille.I brought the cup to his mouth as if feeding a child.He took a gulp and spilled some on the front of his shirt. "Who's dead?" I don't know why I'm even asking this because I know exactly who he's talking about.He struggled to calm himself down. "They had a quarrel last night. He left the house." "Is she dead?" "No, they took her to the hospital." "So what are you talking about?" I exclaimed impatiently. "Why do you say she's dead?"

"Don't be mad at me. If you talk to me like that, I can't tell you anything." I clenched my fists, trying to suppress the anger in my heart.I tried my best to put on a smiling face. "I'm sorry. Take your time, don't worry. I don't blame you." The round, blue eyes behind his short-sighted lenses were frightening to watch.Those eyes were distorted by the magnifying lenses he wore. "The porter went upstairs this morning with a message for them. She rang the bell and got no answer. She heard groans in the house. The door was unlatched, so she went in. Blanche was lying on the bed in a very dangerous condition." .There is a bottle of oxalic acid on the table."

Stroeve covered his face with his hands and groaned as he rocked back and forth. "Was she still conscious at that time?" "Yes. Oh, if only you knew how much she suffered. I can't bear it. I can't bear it." His voice grew higher and higher, becoming a scream. "What the hell is wrong with you," I yelled impatiently, "she brought it on herself." "How can you be so cruel?" "What did you do afterwards?" "They called the doctor, and they sent me too, and reported it to the police. I gave the porter twenty francs before, and told her to call me if anything happened."

He pondered for a while, and I saw that what he was going to tell me next was difficult to say. "She didn't talk to me when I went. She told them to go away. I swore to her I'd forgive her for anything she did, but she wouldn't listen to me. She banged her head against the wall. Doctor told me not to stay with her. She kept yelling, 'Tell him to go away!' I had to leave her and wait in the studio. When the ambulance came and they put her on the stretcher, they called I hid in the kitchen and made her think I was out of there." While I was getting dressed—for Stroeve wanted me to go with him at once to the hospital—he told me that he had arranged for his wife a private room at the hospital so that she would not be in a crowded, A large ward with dirty air.On the way he explained to me again why he wanted me to accompany him—if she still refused to see him, maybe she would like to see me.He begged me to tell her that he still loved her, and he didn't blame her at all, he just wanted to help her a little.He has no demands on her, and he will never persuade her to return to him after she recovers from her illness. She is absolutely free.

Finally, we arrived at the hospital—a bleak and gloomy building that makes people feel chills when we see it.We were sent from one office to another, up countless stairs, through endless, bare corridors, and finally found the attending doctor, but we were told that the patient's health was too bad for the day. Cannot receive any visitors.The doctor we spoke to was a bearded, short man dressed in white and with a no-nonsense manner.He evidently regarded the sick as patients, and the anxious relatives as nuisances, with no room for accommodation.Besides, such things had long been commonplace to him; it was nothing more than a hysterical woman quarreling with her lover, taking poison in anger, and that happened often.At first he thought that Dirk was the culprit, so he contradicted him unnecessarily.After I explained to him that Dirk was the patient's husband and longed to forgive her, the doctor suddenly looked at him with intense curiosity.I seemed to see a hint of teasing in the doctor's eyes; Stroeve's appearance showed that he was a poor man who had been deceived by his wife.The doctor shrugged his shoulders slightly. "There's no danger at present," he answered our inquiry. "It's not known how much she's swallowed. It's probably a false alarm. Women keep committing suicide for love, but generally they do." Care was taken not to allow suicide. Usually it was only a gesture to arouse pity or terror from their lovers."

There was a cold, contemptuous tone in his tone.It was obvious to him that Blanche Stroeve was no more than a figure about to be included in the statistics of suicide attempts for the year in Paris.Doctors are very busy and it is impossible to waste their time for us.He told us that if we came at a certain hour the next day, if Blanche was better, her husband would be able to see her.