"Leave the room!" ordered the doctor imperiously.
I obeyed him. Some one shut the door behind me. I remained several
minutes outside, listening; but my knees trembled; the beating of my
heart dominated every other sound. I threw myself on the sofa, put my
handkerchief between my teeth, buried my face in a cushion. I, too,
suffered physical torture, similar to what an amputation, slowly and
badly done, must be.
I could not make a step. Several minutes passed--an incalculable time.
Thoughts and images furrowed my brain like sudden flashes. "Is he born?
Suppose she is dead? Suppose they are both dead, mother and child? No,
no! It is certain that she is dead and that he lives. But I hear no
wailing. Why?" I conquered the terror that held me, and sprang to the
door. I opened it and entered.