Martin Guerre grew pale, and began a conversation with the pretty Rose, his neighbour.  Bertrande observed this, but without uneasiness; she had suffered too much from her former suspicions, besides her husband showed her so much affection that she was now quite happy.

When the first few days were over, Martin began to look into his affairs.  His property had suffered by his long absence, and he was obliged to go to Biscay to claim his little estate there, the law having already laid hands upon it.  It was several months before, by dint of making judicious sacrifices, he could regain possession of the house and fields which had belonged to his father.  This at last accomplished, he returned to Artigues, in order to resume the management of his wife’s property, and with this end in view, about eleven months after his return, he paid a visit to his uncle Pierre.

Pierre was expecting him; he was extremely polite, desired Martin, to sit down, overwhelmed him with compliments, knitting his brows as he discovered that his nephew decidedly meant business.  Martin broke silence.

“Uncle,” he said, “I come to thank you for the care you have taken of my wife’s property; she could never have managed it alone.  You have received the income in the family interest:  as a good guardian, I expected no less from your affection.  But now that I have returned, and am free from other cares, we will go over the accounts, if you please.”

His uncle coughed and cleared his voice before replying, then said slowly, as if counting his words—­

“It is all accounted for, my dear nephew; Heaven be praised!  I don’t owe you anything.”

“What!” exclaimed the astonished Martin, “but the whole income?”

“Was well and properly employed in the maintenance of your wife and child.”

“What! a thousand livres for that?  And Bertrande lived alone, so quietly and simply!  Nonsense! it is impossible.”

“Any surplus,” resumed the old man, quite unmoved,—­“any surplus went to pay the expenses of seed-time and harvest.”

“What! at a time when labour costs next to nothing?”

“Here is the account,” said Pierre.

“Then the account is a false one,” returned his nephew.

Pierre thought it advisable to appear extremely offended and angry, and Martin, exasperated at his evident dishonesty, took still higher ground, and threatened to bring an action against him.  Pierre ordered him to leave the house, and suiting actions to words, took hold of his arm to enforce his departure.  Martin, furious, turned and raised his fist to strike.

“What! strike your uncle, wretched boy!” exclaimed the old man.

Martin’s hand dropped, but he left the house uttering reproaches and insults, among which Pierre distinguished—­

“Cheat that you are!”

“That is a word I shall remember,” cried the angry old man, slamming his door violently.