After an hour, when everybody had questioned her, she told about the letter, Jacques' upset appearance and her fears of an accident.
Still they waited. The guests left; only the nearest relatives remained. At midnight the bride was put to bed, sobbing bitterly. Her mother and two aunts, sitting around the bed, listened to her crying, silent and in despair. The father had gone to the commissary of police to see if he could obtain some news.
At five o'clock a slight noise was heard in the hall. A door was softly opened and closed. Then suddenly a little cry like the mewing of a cat was heard throughout the silent house.
All the women started forward and Berthe sprang ahead of them all, pushing her way past her aunts, wrapped in a bathrobe.
Jacques stood in the middle of the room, pale and out of breath, holding an infant in his arms. The four women looked at him, astonished; but Berthe, who had suddenly become courageous, rushed forward with anguish in her heart, exclaiming: “What is it? What's the matter?”
He looked about him wildly and answered shortly:
“I—I have a child and the mother has just died.”
And with his clumsy hands he held out the screaming infant.
Without saying a word, Berthe seized the child, kissed it and hugged it to her. Then she raised her tear-filled eyes to him, asking: “Did you say that the mother was dead?” He answered: “Yes—just now—in my arms. I had broken with her since summer. I knew nothing. The physician sent for me.”
Then Berthe murmured: “Well, we will bring up the little one.”