He went and got the child.  He placed him gently on the bed between them, and the little one stopped crying.  She murmured:  “Don’t move any more!” And he was quiet.  And he stayed there, holding in his burning hand this other hand shaking in the chill of death, just as, a while ago, he had been holding a hand trembling with love.  From time to time he would cast a quick glance at the clock, which marked midnight, then one o’clock, then two.

The physician had returned.  The two nurses, after noiselessly moving about the room for a while, were now sleeping on chairs.  The child was asleep, and the mother, with eyes shut, appeared also to be resting.

Suddenly, just as pale daylight was creeping in behind the curtains, she stretched out her arms with such a quick and violent motion that she almost threw her baby on the floor.  A kind of rattle was heard in her throat, then she lay on her back motionless, dead.

The nurses sprang forward and declared:  “All is over!”

He looked once more at this woman whom he had so loved, then at the clock, which pointed to four, and he ran away, forgetting his overcoat, in the evening dress, with the child in his arms.

After he had left her alone the young wife had waited, calmly enough at first, in the little Japanese boudoir.  Then, as she did not see him return, she went back to the parlor with an indifferent and calm appearance, but terribly anxious.  When her mother saw her alone she asked:  “Where is your husband?” She answered:  “In his room; he is coming right back.”

After an hour, when everybody had questioned her, she told about the letter, Jacques’ upset appearance and her fears of an accident.

Still they waited.  The guests left; only the nearest relatives remained.  At midnight the bride was put to bed, sobbing bitterly.  Her mother and two aunts, sitting around the bed, listened to her crying, silent and in despair.  The father had gone to the commissary of police to see if he could obtain some news.

At five o’clock a slight noise was heard in the hall.  A door was softly opened and closed.  Then suddenly a little cry like the mewing of a cat was heard throughout the silent house.

All the women started forward and Berthe sprang ahead of them all, pushing her way past her aunts, wrapped in a bathrobe.

Jacques stood in the middle of the room, pale and out of breath, holding an infant in his arms.  The four women looked at him, astonished; but Berthe, who had suddenly become courageous, rushed forward with anguish in her heart, exclaiming:  “What is it?  What’s the matter?”

He looked about him wildly and answered shortly: 

“I—­I have a child and the mother has just died.”

And with his clumsy hands he held out the screaming infant.

Without saying a word, Berthe seized the child, kissed it and hugged it to her.  Then she raised her tear-filled eyes to him, asking:  “Did you say that the mother was dead?” He answered:  “Yes—­just now—­in my arms.  I had broken with her since summer.  I knew nothing.  The physician sent for me.”