Then they embraced more closely on the bed where they lay together.
She said to him:
"I have your heart."
He said to her:
"I have your heart."
* * * * *
They had a sweet little boy.
And the poet, feeling that the illness which had so weighed upon him had fled, said to his wife:
"My mother does not know what has become of me. My heart is wrung with that thought. Let me go to the town, my beloved, and tell her that I am happy and that I have a son."
She smiled at him, knowing that his heart was hers, and said: