Then the woman with the rapacious nose in a burst of anger raised her skirt, entered the water as far as the knees, and cried:
"Look! He went in this far. Look! The water is like oil. It is a sign that he was to die in this manner."
And she regained the shore in two long strides.
"Look, look!" she repeated, pointing out on the sand the deep imprints of the man who had drawn out the body.
The mother looked on in a stupor; but one would have said that she did not see, that she understood nothing. After the hopeless explosions of grief, there supervened in her short pauses, like the dulling of consciousness. She remained silent; she touched her foot, or leg, mechanically; she dried her tears with her black apron; she seemed to become composed. Then suddenly a new explosion shook her entire frame; she fell on the corpse.
"And I cannot take you away! I cannot take you in my arms to the church! My son! My son!"
She felt him from head to foot, with a slow caress. Her wild anguish became more gentle, more touching. Her hand, sunburnt and callous by work, became infinitely coaxing when she touched her son's eyes, mouth, and forehead.
"How beautiful you are! How beautiful you are!"
She touched his lower lip, already violet-hued; and this slight pressure caused a flow of whitish foam to flow from the mouth. She removed from between the eyelashes a bit of straw, gently, gently, as if she feared to hurt him.
"How beautiful you are, you mother's pet!"