He looked at her stupidly, dazed with grief, and repeated:
“Come at once! She's dying, I tell you!”
Bertha answered:
“You would rather it were I.”
Then at last he understood, and returned alone to the dying woman's bedside.
He mourned her openly, shamelessly, indifferent to the sorrow of the wife who no longer spoke to him, no longer looked at him; who passed her life in solitude, hedged round with disgust, with indignant anger, and praying night and day to God.
They still lived in the same house, however, and sat opposite each other at table, in silence and despair.
Gradually his sorrow grew less acute; but she did not forgive him.
And so their life went on, hard and bitter for them both.
For a whole year they remained as complete strangers to each other as if they had never met. Bertha nearly lost her reason.