She looked at the doctor and me with dilated eyes. She released my arm.
"Courage!" I repeated, choking.
I kissed her forehead, moist with perspiration, and turned to leave.
"Ah! Tullio!" she cried, behind me.
That heart-breaking cry signified: "I shall never see you again."
I made a movement as if about to return to her.
"Leave the room!" ordered the doctor imperiously.
I obeyed him. Some one shut the door behind me. I remained several minutes outside, listening; but my knees trembled; the beating of my heart dominated every other sound. I threw myself on the sofa, put my handkerchief between my teeth, buried my face in a cushion. I, too, suffered physical torture, similar to what an amputation, slowly and badly done, must be.
I could not make a step. Several minutes passed—an incalculable time. Thoughts and images furrowed my brain like sudden flashes. "Is he born? Suppose she is dead? Suppose they are both dead, mother and child? No, no! It is certain that she is dead and that he lives. But I hear no wailing. Why?" I conquered the terror that held me, and sprang to the door. I opened it and entered.
I immediately heard the doctor's voice shouting at me roughly: