She replied in gasps:
“Oh, do not leave me, do not leave me, Benoist!”
He looked at her, not knowing what to say, what to do. She began to cry out again:
“Oh, oh, it is killing me. Oh, Benoist!”
She writhed frightfully.
Benoist was suddenly seized with a frantic longing to help her, to quiet her, to remove her pain. He leaned over, lifted her up and laid her on her bed; and while she kept on moaning he began to take off her clothes, her jacket, her skirt and her petticoat. She bit her fists to keep from crying out. Then he did as he was accustomed to doing for cows, ewes, and mares: he assisted in delivering her and found in his hands a large infant who was moaning.
He wiped it off and wrapped it up in a towel that was drying in front of the fire, and laid it on a bundle of clothes ready for ironing that was on the table. Then he went back to the mother.
He took her up and placed her on the floor again, then he changed the bedclothes and put her back into bed. She faltered:
“Thank you, Benoist, you have a noble heart.” And then she wept a little as if she felt regretful.
He did not love her any longer, not the least bit. It was all over. Why? How? He could not have said. What had happened had cured him better than ten years of absence.