“Kneel down at once, madame—­kneel down, and ask pardon from Almighty God!”

“Are you mad, Pierre?” she replied, gazing at him in astonishment.

“You, at least, ought to know that I am not.”

“Pray for forgiveness—­I—! and what for, in Heaven’s name?”

“For the crime in which you are an accomplice.”

“Please explain yourself.”

“Oh!” said Pierre, with bitter irony, “a woman always thinks herself innocent as long as her sin is hidden; she thinks the truth will never be known, and her conscience goes quietly to sleep, forgetting her faults.  Here is a woman who thought her sins nicely concealed; chance favoured her:  an absent husband, probably no more; another man so exactly like him in height, face, and manner that everyone else is deceived!  Is it strange that a weak, sensitive woman, wearied of widowhood, should willingly allow herself to be imposed on?”

Bertrande listened without understanding; she tried to interrupt, but Pierre went on—­

“It was easy to accept this stranger without having to blush for it, easy to give him the name and the rights of a husband!  She could even appear faithful while really guilty; she could seem constant, though really fickle; and she could, under a veil of mystery, at once reconcile her honour, her duty—­perhaps even her love.”

“What on earth do you mean?” cried Bertrande, wringing her hands in terror.

“That you are countenancing an impostor who is not your husband.”

Feeling as if the ground were passing from beneath her, Bertrande staggered, and caught at the nearest piece of furniture to save herself from falling; then, collecting all her strength to meet this extraordinary attack, she faced the old man.

“What! my husband, your nephew, an impostor!”

“Don’t you know it?”
“I!!”

This cry, which came from her heart, convinced Pierre that she did not know, and that she had sustained a terrible shock.  He continued more quietly—­

“What, Bertrande, is it possible you were really deceived?”

“Pierre, you are killing me; your words are torture.  No more mystery, I entreat.  What do you know?  What do you suspect?  Tell me plainly at once.”

“Have you courage to hear it?”

“I must,” said the trembling woman.

“God is my witness that I would willingly have kept it from you, but you must know; if only for the safety of your soul entangled in so deadly a snare,... there is yet time, if you follow my advice.  Listen:  the man with whom you are living, who dares to call himself Martin Guerre, is a cheat, an impostor——­”

“How dare you say so?”