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The young woman again asked:

“Well, Monsieur Cesar?”

He kept staring at her. Her face was livid with anguish; and she waited, her hands trembling with fear.

Then he took courage.

“Well, Mam’zelle, papa died on Sunday last just after he had opened the shooting.”

She was so much overwhelmed that she did not move. After a silence of a few seconds, she faltered in an almost inaudible tone:

“Oh! it is not possible!”

Then, on a sudden, tears showed themselves in her eyes, and covering her face with her hands, she burst out sobbing.

At that point the little boy turned round, and, seeing his mother weeping, began to howl. Then, realizing that this sudden trouble was brought about by the stranger, he rushed at Cesar, caught hold of his breeches with one hand and with the other hit him with all his strength on the thigh. And Cesar remained agitated, deeply affected, with this woman mourning for his father at one side of him, and the little boy defending his mother at the other. He felt their emotion taking possession of himself, and his eyes were beginning to brim over with the same sorrow; so, to recover his self-command, he began to talk:

“Yes,” he said, “the accident occurred on Sunday, at eight o’clock–“

And he told, as if she were listening to him, all the facts without forgetting a single detail, mentioning the most trivial matters with the minuteness of a countryman. And the child still kept assailing him, making kicks at his ankles.

When he came to the time at which his father had spoken about her, her attention was caught by hearing her own name, and, uncovering her face, she said:

“Pardon me! I was not following you; I would like to know–if you do not mind beginning over again.”

He related everything at great length, with stoppages, breaks, and reflections of his own from time to time. She listened to him eagerly now perceiving with a woman’s keen sensibility all the sudden changes of fortune which his narrative indicated, and trembling with horror, every now and then, exclaiming:

“Oh, my God!”

The little fellow, believing that she had calmed down, ceased beating Cesar, in order to catch his mother’s hand, and he listened, too, as if he understood.

When the narrative was finished, young Hautot continued:

“Now, we will settle matters together in accordance with his wishes. Listen: I am well off, he has left me plenty of means. I don’t want you to have anything to complain about–“

But she quickly interrupted him:

“Oh! Monsieur Cesar, Monsieur Cesar, not today. I am cut to the heart–another time–another day. No, not to-day. If I accept, listen! ‘Tis not for myself–no, no, no, I swear to you. ‘Tis for the child. Besides this provision will be put to his account.”

Thereupon Cesar scared, divined the truth, and stammering:

“So then–’tis his–the child?”

“Why, yes,” she said.

And Hautot Junior gazed at his brother with a confused emotion, intense and painful.

After a lengthened silence, for she had begun to weep afresh, Cesar, quite embarrassed, went on:

“Well, then, Mam’zelle Donet, I am going. When would you wish to talk this over with me?”

She exclaimed:

“Oh! no, don’t go! don’t go! Don’t leave me all alone with Emile. I would die of grief. I have no longer anyone, anyone but my child. Oh! what wretchedness, what wretchedness. Monsieur Cesar! Stop! Sit down again. You will say something more to me. You will tell me what he was doing over there all the week.”

And Cesar resumed his seat, accustomed to obey.

She drew over another chair for herself in front of the stove, where the dishes had all this time been simmering, took Emile upon her knees, and asked Cesar a thousand questions about his father with reference to matters of an intimate nature, which made him feel, without reasoning on the subject, that she had loved Hautot with all the strength of her frail woman’s heart.

And, by the natural concatenation of his ideas–which were rather limited in number–he recurred once more to the accident, and set about telling the story over again with all the same details.