There he wept without fear, or shame, indifferent to the grief of his wife, who would no longer speak to him, nor look at him, but who lived shut in with her disgust and angry revolt, praying to God morning and evening.
They lived together, nevertheless, eating together face to face, mute and hopeless.
After a time, he tried to appease her a little. But she would not forget. And so the life continued, hard for them both.
For a whole year they lived thus, strangers one to the other. Bertha almost became mad.
Then one morning, having set out at dawn, she returned toward eight o'clock carrying in both hands an enormous bouquet of roses, of white roses, all white.
She sent word to her husband that she would like to speak to him. He came in disturbed, troubled.
"Let us go out together," she said to him. "Take these flowers, they are too heavy for me."
He took the bouquet and followed his wife. A carriage awaited them, which started as soon as they were seated.
It stopped before the gate of a cemetery. Then Bertha, her eyes full of tears, said to George: "Take me to her grave."
He trembled, without knowing why, but walked on before, holding the flowers in his arms. Finally he stopped before a shaft of white marble and pointed to it without a word.