She drew near to Charlotte and paused behind her, looking at the profile of her dead son resting among the flowers.  And still she did not weep.  She slowly gazed over the bed, filled her eyes with the dolorous scene, then carried them again to the paper, as if to see what would be left her of that adored son—­those few pencil strokes—­when the earth should have taken him forever.  Charlotte, divining that somebody was behind her, started and raised her head.  She did not speak; she had felt frightened.  But both women exchanged a glance.  And what a heart pang came to Constance, amid that display of death, in the presence of the void, the nothingness that was hers, as she gazed on the other’s face, all love and health and beauty, suggesting some youthful star, whence promise of the future radiated through the fine gold of wavy hair.

But yet another pang came to Constance at that moment:  words which were being whispered in the drawing-room, near the door of the bedchamber, reached her distinctly.  She did not move, but remained erect behind Charlotte, who had resumed her work.  And eagerly lending ear, she listened, not showing herself as yet, although she had already seen Marianne and Madame Angelin seated near the doorway, almost among the folds of the hangings.

“Ah!” Madame Angelin was saying, “the poor mother had a presentiment of it, as it were.  I saw that she felt very anxious when I told her my own sad story.  There is no hope for me; and now death has passed by, and no hope remains for her.”

Silence ensued once more; then, prompted by some connecting train of thought, she went on:  “And your next child will be your eleventh, will it not?  Eleven is not a number; you will surely end by having twelve!”

As Constance heard those words she shuddered in another fit of that fury which dried up her tears.  By glancing sideways she could see that mother of ten children, who was now expecting yet an eleventh child.  She found her still young, still fresh, overflowing with joy and health and hope.  And she was there, like the goddess of fruitfulness, nigh to the funeral bier at that hour of the supreme rending, when she, Constance, was bowed down by the irretrievable loss of her only child.

But Marianne was answering Madame Angelin:  “Oh I don’t think that at all likely.  Why, I’m becoming an old woman.  You forget that I am already a grandmother.  Here, look at that!”

So saying, she waved her hand towards the servant of her daughter-in-law, Charlotte, who, in accordance with the instructions she had received, was now bringing the little Berthe in order that her mother might give her the breast.  The servant had remained at the drawing-room door, hesitating, disliking to intrude on all that mourning; but the child good-humoredly waved her fat little fists, and laughed lightly.  And Charlotte, hearing her, immediately rose and tripped across the salon to take the little one into a neighboring room.