Andermatt rejoined: "He was very uneasy to learn whether you had been told about his intended marriage. I informed him that you had; then he asked me several times what you thought about it."
She exerted her strength to the utmost, and felt able to murmur: "You will tell him that I entirely approve of it."
William, with cruel persistency, went on: "He wishes also to know for certain what name you mean to call your daughter. I told him we were hesitating between Marguerite and Genevieve."
"I have changed my mind," said she. "I intend to call her Arlette."
Formerly, in the early days of her pregnancy, she had discussed with Paul the name which they ought to select whether for a son or for a daughter; and for a daughter they had remained undecided between Genevieve and Marguerite. She no longer wanted these two names.
William repeated: "Arlette! Arlette! That's a very nice name—you are right. For my part, I would have liked to call her Christiane, like you. I adore that name—Christiane!"
She sighed deeply: "Oh! it forebodes too much suffering to bear the name of the Crucified."
He reddened, never having dreamed of this comparison, and rising up: "Besides, Arlette is very nice. By-bye, my darling."
As soon as he had left the room, she called the wet-nurse, and directed her for the future to place the cradle beside the bed.
When the little couch in the form of a wherry, always rocking, and carrying its white curtain like a sail on its mast of twisted copper, had been rolled close to the big bed, Christiane stretched out her hand to the sleeping infant, and she said in a very hushed voice: "Go by-bye, my baby! You will never find anyone who will love you as much as I."