“Martin might answer that, if he were here,” remarked Pierre.

A lightning flash of jealousy shot through Bertrande’s soul at these words, all her former suspicions revived.

“What!” she said, “my husband!  What do you mean?”

“That he left this woman’s house only a little while ago, that for a month they have been meeting secretly.  You are betrayed:  I have seen them and she does not dare to deny it.”

“Have mercy!” cried Rose, still kneeling.

The cry was a confession.  Bertrande became pate as death.  “O God!” she murmured, “deceived, betrayed—­and by him!”

“For a month past,” repeated the old man.

“Oh! the wretch,” she continued, with increasing passion; “then his whole life is a lie!  He has abused my credulity, he now abuses my love!  He does not know me!  He thinks he can trample on me—­me, in whose power are his fortune, his honour, his very life itself!”

Then, turning to Rose—­

“And you, miserable woman! by what unworthy artifice did you gain his love?  Was it by witchcraft? or some poisonous philtre learned from your worthy father?”

“Alas! no, madame; my weakness is my only crime, and also my only excuse.  I loved him, long ago, when I was only a young girl, and these memories have been my ruin.”

“Memories?  What! did you also think you were loving the same man?  Are you also his dupe?  Or are you only pretending, in order to find a rag of excuse to cover your wickedness?”

It was now Rose who failed to understand; Bertrande continued, with growing excitement—­

“Yes, it was not enough to usurp the rights of a husband and father, he thought to play his part still better by deceiving the mistress also . . . .  Ah! it is amusing, is it not?  You also, Rose, you thought he was your old lover!  Well, I at least am excusable, I the wife, who only thought she was faithful to her husband!”

“What does it all mean?” asked the terrified Rose.

“It means that this man is an impostor and that I will unmask him.  Revenge! revenge!”

Pierre came forward.  “Bertrande,” he said, “so long as I thought you were happy, when I feared to disturb your peace, I was silent, I repressed my just indignation, and I spared the usurper of the name and rights of my nephew.  Do you now give me leave to speak?”

“Yes,” she replied in a hollow voice.

“You will not contradict me?”

By way of answer she sat down by the table and wrote a few hasty lines with a trembling hand, then gave them to Pierre, whose eyes sparkled with joy.

“Yes,” he said, “vengeance for him, but for her pity.  Let this humiliation be her only punishment.  I promised silence in return for confession, will you grant it?”

Bertrande assented with a contemptuous gesture.

“Go, fear not,” said the old man, and Rose went out.  Pierre also left the house.