then to leave you, to
let you spend the night in prayer; but I insisted, do you remember? and
pressed you to my heart, as I do now."

"Oh," she murmured weakly, "have pity!"

But the words were intercepted by a kiss, and the remembrance of the
past, the happiness of the present, resumed their sway; the imaginary
terrors were forgotten, and the curtains closed around the marriage-bed.

The next day was a festival in the village of Artigues. Martin returned
the visits of all who had come to welcome him the previous night, and
there were endless recognitions and embracings. The young men remembered
that he had played with them when they were little; the old men, that
they had been at his wedding when he was only twelve.

The women remembered having envied Bertrande, especially the pretty Rose,
daughter of Marcel, the apothecary, she who had roused the demon of
jealousy in, the poor wife's heart. And Rose knew quite well that the
jealousy was not without some cause; for Martin had indeed shown her
attention, and she was unable to see him again without emotion. She was
now the wife of a rich peasant, ugly, old, and jealous, and she compared,
sighing, her unhappy lot with that of her more fortunate neighbour.
Martin's sisters detained him amongst them, and spoke of their childish
games and of their parents, both dead in Biscay. Martin dried the tears
which flowed at these recollections of the past, and turned their
thoughts to rejoicing. Banquets were given and received. Martin invited
all his relations and former friends; an easy gaiety prevailed. It was
remarked that the hero of the feast refrained from wine; he was thereupon
reproached, but answered that on account of the wounds he had received he
was obliged to avoid excess. The excuse was admitted, the result of
Martin's precautions being that he kept a clear head on his shoulders,
while all the rest had their tongues loosed by drunkenness.

"Ah!" exclaimed one of the guests, who had studied a little medicine,
"Martin is quite right to be afraid of drink. Wounds which have
thoroughly healed may be reopened and inflamed by intemperance, and wine
in the case of recent wounds is deadly poison. Men have died on the
field of battle in an hour or two merely because they had swallowed a
little brandy."

Martin Guerre grew pale, and began a conversation with the pretty Rose,
his neighbour. Bertrande observed this, but without uneasiness; she had
suffered too muc