Henri joins her on the sofa, and thankfully for them both, the child is quick to accept the bottle, and seems to settle as she feeds. She was hungry, Combeferre tells himself, and tired. God knows what such a strange journey could do to an infant. It is not you who makes her unhappy. After a few moments, he raises his eyes and offers his wife a tentative smile. “Oh, Sybil,” he murmurs, grasping at hope, at the warmth that encircles them as they sit together, unexpected though the morning’s events might be. What they lack in certainty, they make up for in love. “She is beautiful,” he says. "Nearly as beautiful as her mother.”