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Updated: June 25, 2025
The letter was dated concurrently with Alresca's will that is to say, a few days before our arrival in Bruges and it ran thus: "My dear Friend: It seems to me that I am to die, and from a strange cause for I believe I have guessed the cause. The nature of my guess and all the circumstances I have written out at length, and the document is in the sealed packet which accompanies this.
Foster," she said, "I have asked you to see me to my carriage, but really I want you to do more than that. I want you to go with me to poor Alresca's. He is progressing satisfactorily, so far as I can judge, but the dear fellow is thoroughly depressed. I saw him this afternoon, and he wished, if I met you here to-night, that I should bring you to him.
To my speculations I discovered no answer. Then the moment had come when Alresca's thigh was so far mended that, under special conditions, we could travel, and one evening, after a journey full of responsibilities for me, we had arrived in Bruges. Soon afterwards came a slight alteration. Alresca took pleasure in his lovely house, and I was aware of an improvement in his condition.
"Remember," I added, "quite a little, tiny chat!" She nodded and went in, I following. Upon catching sight of her, Alresca's face broke into an exquisite, sad smile. Then he gave his valet a glance, and the valet crept from the room. I, as in professional duty bound, remained. The most I could do was to retire as far from the couch, and pretend to busy myself with the rolling up of spare bandages.
I tried to smile a reassurance, and raising her as gently as I could, I led her back to her chair. It was on my part a feeble performance. "You are suffering from a nervous crisis," I said, "and I must prescribe for you. My first prescription is that we do not talk about Alresca's death." I endeavored to be perfectly matter-of-fact in tone, and gradually she grew calmer.
The aspect of the room is vividly before me now as I write. Most of the great chamber was in a candle-lit gloom, but the reading-lamp burnt clearly at the head of the couch, throwing into prominence the fine profile of Alresca's face. He had fallen asleep, or at any rate his eyes were closed. The copy of "Madame Bovary" lay on the floor, and near it a gold pencil-case.
"And I will venture to inform you that I am not in the least surprised." "Oh!" she exclaimed. "And why?" "After what you said to him that night in the dressing-room. If I had been in Alresca's place I know that I should be depressed, and very much depressed, too." "You mean " she faltered. "Yes," I said, "I mean that." I thought I had gone pretty far, and my heart was beating.
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