“Yes! Maria!”
“An accident?—An illness?”
Louise made a rapid gesture with her arm and head which signified: “If it were only that!” With her mouth distorted by a bitter smile and with lowered eyes, talking confusedly, she said:
“Monsieur Maurice Roger—yes—your friend Maurice! A miserable wretch!—he has deceived and ruined the unhappy child! Oh! what infamy!—and now—now—”
Her deathly pale face flushed and became purple to the roots of her hair.
“Now Maria will become a mother!”
At these words the poet gave a cry like some enraged beast; he reeled, and would have fallen had the table not been near. He sat down on the edge of it, supporting himself with his hands, completely frozen as if from a great chill. Louise, overcome with shame, sat in the armchair, hiding her face in her hands while great tears rolled down between the fingers of her ragged gloves.