Towards ten o’clock on the evening of a dark night, the door of a small house lying about half a gunshot from the village opened gently for the exit of a man wrapped in a large cloak, followed by a young woman, who accompanied him some distance.  Arrived at the parting point, they separated with a tender kiss and a few murmured words of adieu; the lover took his horse, which was fastened to a tree, mounted, and rode off towards Rieux.  When the sounds died away, the woman turned slowly and sadly towards her home, but as she approached the door a man suddenly turned the corner of the house and barred her away.  Terrified, she was on the point of crying for help, when he seized her arm and ordered her to be silent.

“Rose,” he whispered, “I know everything:  that man is your lover.  In order to receive him safely, you send your old husband to sleep by means of a drug stolen from your father’s shop.  This intrigue has been going on for a month; twice a week, at seven o’clock, your door is opened to this man, who does not proceed on his way to the town until ten.  I know your lover:  he is my nephew.”

Petrified with terror, Rose fell on her knees and implored mercy.

“Yes,” replied Pierre, “you may well be frightened:  I have your secret.  I have only to publish it and you are ruined for ever:” 

You will not do it! “entreated the guilty woman, clasping her hands.

“I have only to tell your husband,” continued Pierre, “that his wife has dishonoured him, and to explain the reason of his unnaturally heavy sleep.”

“He will kill me!”

“No doubt:  he is jealous, he is an Italian, he will know how to avenge himself—­even as I do.”

“But I never did you any harm,” Rose cried in despair.  “Oh! have pity, have mercy, and spare me!”

“On one condition.”

“What is it?”

“Come with me.”

Terrified almost out of her mind, Rose allowed him to lead her away.

Bertrande had just finished her evening prayer, and was preparing for bed, when she was startled by several knocks at her door.  Thinking that perhaps some neighbour was in need of help, she opened it immediately, and to her astonishment beheld a dishevelled woman whom Pierre grasped by the arm.  He exclaimed vehemently—­

“Here is thy judge!  Now, confess all to Bertrande!”

Bertrande did not at once recognise the woman, who fell at her feet, overcome by Pierre’s threats.

“Tell the truth here,” he continued, “or I go and tell it to your husband, at your own home!”—­“Ah! madame, kill me,” said the unhappy creature, hiding her face; “let me rather die by your hand than his!”

Bertrande, bewildered, did not understand the position in the least, but she recognised Rose—­

“But what is the matter, madame?  Why are you here at this hour, pale and weeping?  Why has my uncle dragged you hither?  I am to judge you, does he say?  Of what crime are you guilty?”