Trembling and dazed, she stammered:  “Go, my dear!” not having been his wife long enough to dare to question him, to demand to know.  He disappeared.  She remained alone, listening to the dancing in the neighboring parlor.

He had seized the first hat and coat he came to and rushed downstairs three steps at a time.  As he was emerging into the street he stopped under the gas-jet of the vestibule and reread the letter.  This is what it said: 

Sir:  A girl by the name of Ravet, an old sweetheart of yours, it seems, has just given birth to a child that she says is yours.  The mother is about to die and is begging for you.  I take the liberty to write and ask you if you can grant this last request to a woman who seems to be very unhappy and worthy of pity.  Yours truly, Dr. Bonnard.

When he reached the sick-room the woman was already on the point of death.  He did not recognize her at first.  The doctor and two nurses were taking care of her.  And everywhere on the floor were pails full of ice and rags covered with blood.  Water flooded the carpet; two candles were burning on a bureau; behind the bed, in a little wicker crib, the child was crying, and each time it would moan the mother, in torture, would try to move, shivering under her ice bandages.

She was mortally wounded, killed by this birth.  Her life was flowing from her, and, notwithstanding the ice and the care, the merciless hemorrhage continued, hastening her last hour.

She recognized Jacques and wished to raise her arms.  They were so weak that she could not do so, but tears coursed down her pallid cheeks.  He dropped to his knees beside the bed, seized one of her hands and kissed it frantically.  Then, little by little, he drew close to the thin face, which started at the contact.  One of the nurses was lighting them with a candle, and the doctor was watching them from the back of the room.

Then she said in a voice which sounded as though it came from a distance:  “I am going to die, dear.  Promise to stay to the end.  Oh! don’t leave me now.  Don’t leave me in my last moments!”

He kissed her face and her hair, and, weeping, he murmured:  “Do not be uneasy; I will stay.”

It was several minutes before she could speak again, she was so weak.  She continued:  “The little one is yours.  I swear it before God and on my soul.  I swear it as I am dying!  I have never loved another man but you —­promise to take care of the child.”

He was trying to take this poor pain-racked body in his arms.  Maddened by remorse and sorrow, he stammered:  “I swear to you that I will bring him up and love him.  He shall never leave me.”

Then she tried to kiss Jacques.  Powerless to lift her head, she held out her white lips in an appeal for a kiss.  He approached his lips to respond to this piteous entreaty.

As soon as she felt a little calmer, she murmured:  “Bring him here and let me see if you love him.”