“Happy! Happy because a young man has been shot. You must have a bloodthirsty nature, Babette.”
“It isn't the shooting, Madame. It's the name.”
“The name? What name? You are nervous, Babette. You must lie down and rest. I keep you up too late nights reading and writing.”
“Oh, Madame, how can I say it? Can you bear it?”
“I have borne suspense for twenty-three years. I can bear much. What is it you would tell me?”
“You know, Madame, I said the older man was the young man's father. They both have the same name.”
“That's not uncommon, especially in America. The young man is called Junior. Sometimes when they are very proud of a family name they number them. Supposing my husband were living, and my son had a son, named after himself, the little boy would be Quincy Adams Sawyer 3rd.”
“Madame, I must tell you. The father and the son bear the name of Quincy Adams Sawyer!”
Alice regarded her as if affrighted. Then she leaped from the bed and cried: “Bring me my clothes, Babette. My husband and son! We three, brought together by the hand of God once more.”
The revulsion was too great. The pent-up agony of twenty-three years dissolved in a moment. Alice fainted and fell into Babette's arms.