But the watchers at his side heard only the wintry wind in the corridors, the steps of the retreating crowd in the court below, and the distant noises in the street. He listened a moment, said a few unintelligible words, then his head fell back and his eyes closed. But he was right. Two women were running up the stairs. They had been allowed to enter, though the hour for the admittance of visitors had long since passed. But it was one of those occasions where rules may be broken and set aside.
When they arrived at the outer door, Charlotte stopped. “I cannot go on,” she said, “I am frightened.”
“Come on,” the other answered, roughly; “you must. Ah, to such women as you, God should never give children!”
And she pushed Charlotte toward the staircase. The large room, the shaded lamps, the kneeling forms, the mother saw at one glance; and farther on, at the end of the apartment, were two men bending over a bed, and Cécile Rivals, pale as death, supporting a head on her breast.
“Jack, my child!”
M. Rivals turned. “Hush,” he said, sternly.
Then came a sigh—a long, shivering sigh.
Charlotte crept nearer, with failing limbs and sinking heart. It was Jack indeed, with arms stiffly falling at his side, and eyes fixed on vacancy.
The doctor bent over him. “Jack, my friend; it is your mother, she is here!”
And she, unhappy woman, stretched out her arms toward him. “Jack, it is I! I am here!”