her fingers in the strong grip of his large,
muscular hand, and she, livid with pain, tried in vain to free them from
that vise which was crushing them. The agony made her breathe hard and
the tears came into her eyes. "You see that I am the master and the
stronger," he said. When he somewhat loosened his grip, she asked him:
"Do you think that I am a religious woman?"

He was surprised and stammered "Yes."

"Do you think that I could lie if I swore to the truth of anything to
you before an altar on which Christ's body is?"

"No."

"Will you go with me to some church?"

"What for?"

"You shall see. Will you?"

"If you absolutely wish it, yes."

She raised her voice and said: "Philippe!" And the coachman, bending
down a little, without taking his eyes from his horses, seemed to
turn his ear alone toward his mistress, who continued: "Drive to St.
Philippe-du-Roule." And the-victoria, which had reached the entrance of
the Bois de Boulogne returned to Paris.

Husband and wife did not exchange a word further during the drive, and
when the carriage stopped before the church Madame de Mascaret jumped
out and entered it, followed by the count, a few yards distant. She
went, without stopping, as far as the choir-screen, and falling on her
knees at a chair, she buried her face in her hands. She prayed for a
long time, and he, standing behind her could see that she was crying.
She wept noiselessly, as women weep when they are in great, poignant
grief. There was a kind of undulation in her body, which ended in a
little sob, which was hidden and stifled by her fingers.

But the Comte de Mascaret thought that the situation was lasting too
long, and he touched her on the shoulder. That contact recalled her to
herself, as if she had been burned, and getting up, she looked straight
into his eyes. "This is what I have to say to you. I am afraid of
nothing, whatever you may do to me. You may kill me if you like. One
of your children is not yours, and one only; that I swear to you before
God, who hears me here. That was the only revenge that was possible for
me in return for all your abominable masculine tyrannies, in return for
the penal servitude of childbearing to which you have condemned me. Who
was my lover? That you never will know! You may suspect every one, but
you never will find out. I gave myself to him, without love and without
pleasure, only for the sake of betraying you, and he also made me a
mother. Which is the