The Baron looked at her a moment, and then, opening the bed-curtains, he said: 

“You can not pass the night thus, it is nearly three o’clock.  You must go to bed as usual.”

Clemence shivered at these words, whose accent, however, was not hard.  She obeyed mechanically; but she had hardly risen when she was obliged to recline upon the bed, for her trembling limbs would not support her.

“Do not be afraid of me,” said Bergenheim, drawing back a few steps; “my presence should not frighten you.  I only wish that people should know that I have passed the night in your chamber, for it is possible that my return may arouse suspicion.  You know that our love is only a comedy played for the benefit of our servants.”

There was such affected lightness in these remarks that the young woman was cut to the very quick.  She had expected an explosion of anger, but not this calm contempt.  Her revolted pride gave her courage.

“I do not deserve to be treated thus,” said she; “do not condemn me without a hearing.”

“I ask nothing of you,” replied Christian, who seated himself again beside the mantel; “undress yourself, and go to sleep if it is possible for you to do so.  It is not necessary for Justine to make any comments tomorrow about your day clothes not having been removed.”

Instead of obeying him, she went toward him and tried to remain standing in order to speak to him, but her emotion was so intense that it took away her strength and she was obliged to sit down.

“You treat me too cruelly, Christian,” said she, when she had succeeded to recover her voice.  “I am not guilty; at least, not so much as you think I am—­” said she, drooping her head.

He looked at her attentively for a moment, and then replied, in a voice which did not betray the slightest emotion: 

“You must know that my greatest desire is to be persuaded of this by you.  I know that too often appearances are deceitful; perhaps you will be able to explain to me what took place last evening; I am still inclined to believe your word.  Swear to me that you do not love Monsieur de Gerfaut.”

“I swear it!” said she, in a weak voice, and without raising her eyes.

He went to the bed and took down a little silver crucifix which was hanging above it.

“Swear it to me upon this crucifix,” said he, presenting it to his wife.

She tried in vain to raise her hand, which seemed fastened to the arm of her chair.

“I swear it!” she stammered a second time, while her face became as pale as death.

A savage laugh escaped Christian’s lips.  He put the crucifix in its place again without saying a word, then he opened the secret panel and, taking out the casket, placed it upon the table before his wife.  She made a movement as if to seize it, but her courage failed her.

“You have perjured yourself to your husband and to God!” said Bergenheim slowly.  “Do you know what kind of woman you are?”