"Why, why did she do it?" he said. "Why did she do that?"
Bertha was silent.
"It wasn't necessary," continued Herr Rupius, "Heaven knows, it wasn't necessary. What difference could the other men make to me—tell me that?"
Bertha nodded.
"The main point is to live—yes, that is it! Why did she do that?"
It sounded like a suppressed wail, although he seemed to be speaking very quietly. Bertha burst into tears.
"No, it wasn't necessary! I would have brought it up—brought it up as my own child!"
Bertha looked up sharply. All at once she understood everything, and a terrible fear ran through her whole being. She thought of herself. If in that night she also … in that one hour?… So great was her terror that she believed that she must be losing her reason. What had hitherto been scarcely more than a vague possibility floating through her mind now loomed suddenly before her, an indisputable certainty. It could not possibly be otherwise, the death of Anna was an omen, the pointing of the finger of God.
At the same time there arose within her mind the recollection of the day, twelve years ago, when she had been walking with Emil on the bank of the Wien, and he had kissed her and for the first time she had felt an ardent yearning for a child. How was it that she had not experienced the same yearning when, recently, she felt his arms about her?… Yes, she knew now; she had desired nothing more than the pleasures of the moment; she had been no better than a woman of the streets. It would be only the just punishment of Heaven if she also perished in her shame, like the poor woman lying in the next room.
"I would like to see her once more," she said.