Months passed, and more months. He caught sight of her, occasionally,
going to the village with a heavier step than usual. She blushed as
she saw him, lowered her head and quickened her pace. And he turned
out of his way so as not to pass her and meet her glance.
He dreaded the thought that he might one morning meet her face to
face, and be obliged to speak to her. What could he say to her now,
after all he had said formerly, when he held her hands as he kissed
her hair beside her cheeks? He often thought of those meetings along
the roadside. She had acted horridly after all her promises.
By degrees his grief diminished, leaving only sadness behind. And one
day he took the old road that led past the farm where she now lived.
He looked at the roof from a distance. It was there, in there, that
she lived with another! The apple trees were in bloom, the cocks
crowed on the dunghill. The whole dwelling seemed empty, the farm
hands had gone to the fields to their spring toil. He stopped near the
gate and looked into the yard. The dog was asleep outside his kennel,
three calves were walking slowly, one behind the other, towards the
pond. A big turkey was strutting before the door, parading before the
turkey hens like a singer at the opera.
Benoist leaned against the gate post and was suddenly seized with a
desire to weep. But suddenly, he heard a cry, a loud cry for help
coming from the house. He was struck with dismay, his hands grasping
the wooden bars of the gate, and listened attentively. Another cry, a
prolonged, heartrending cry, reached his ears, his soul, his flesh. It
was she who was crying like that! He darted inside, crossed the grass
patch, pushed open the door, and saw her lying on the floor, her body
drawn up, her face livid, her eyes haggard, in the throes of
childbirth.
He stood there, trembling and paler than she was, and stammered:
"Here I am, here I am, Martine!"
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!"