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!”
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 wraped 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.
She asked, exhausted and trembling:
“What is it?”
He replied calmly:
“It is a very fine girl.”
Then they were silent again. At the end of a
few moments, the mother, in a weak voice, said:
“Show her to me, Benoist.”
He took up the little one and was showing it to her
as if he were holding the consecrated wafer, when
the door opened, and Isidore Vallin appeared.
He did not understand at first, then all at once he
guessed.
Benoist, in consternation, stammered out:
“I was passing, I was just passing by when I
heard her crying out, and I came—there
is your child, Vallin!”
Then the husband, his eyes full of tears, stepped
forward, took the little mite of humanity that he
held out to him, kissed it, unable to speak from emotion
for a few seconds; then placing the child on the bed,
he held out both hands to Benoist, saying:
“Your hand upon it, Benoist. From now on
we understand each other. If you are willing,
we will be a pair of friends, a pair of friends!”
And Benoist replied:
“Indeed I will, certainly, indeed I will.”
* * * *
*
Comte de Lormerin had just finished dressing.
He cast a parting glance at the large mirror which
occupied an entire panel in his dressing-room and
smiled.
