“So then—'tis his—the child?”
“Why, yes,” she said.
And Hautot Junior gazed at his brother with a confused emotion, intense and painful.
After a lengthened silence, for she had begun to weep afresh, César, quite embarrassed, went on:
“Well, then, Mam'zelle Donet, I am going. When would you wish to talk this over with me?”
She exclaimed:
“Oh! no, don't go! don't go! Don't leave me all alone with Emile. I would die of grief. I have no longer anyone, anyone but my child. Oh! what wretchedness, what wretchedness. Monsieur César! Stop! Sit down again. You will say something more to me. You will tell me what he was doing over there all the week.”
And César resumed his seat, accustomed to obey.
She drew over another chair for herself in front of the stove, where the dishes had all this time been simmering, took Emile upon her knees, and asked César a thousand questions about his father with reference to matters of an intimate nature, which made him feel, without reasoning on the subject, that she had loved Hautot with all the strength of her frail woman's heart.
And, by the natural concatenation of his ideas—which were rather limited in number—he recurred once more to the accident, and set about telling the story over again with all the same details.