Let the abbe tell the end of the story:
At 9 o'clock the parents arrive. Frightened at first by the
change, they are reassured to see that he is suffering so
little, and soon leave him, as they think, to rest. When they
return at 10, suddenly called, their child is dead. Their
grief is terrible. The father still masters himself, but the
mother utters cries. They are led to the chapel, while some
one comes to look for me. The poor woman, who was wandering
about stamping and wringing her hands, rushes to me and cries,
no, it is not possible that her son is dead, a child like
that, so healthy, so beautiful, so lovable; she wishes me to
reassure her, to say it is as she says. Before my silence and
the tears that come to my eyes her groans redouble, and
nothing can calm her: "But what will become of us? We had only
him."
Nothing quiets her. My words of Christian hope have no more
effect than what the father tries to say to her. For a moment
she listens to my account of the poor boy's words of faith, of
the communion yesterday, of his prayer this morning. But soon
she falls back into her distraction, and I suggest to the
husband that he try to occupy her mind, to make a diversion of
some kind; the more so, I add, as I must leave to attend a
burial.
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