n announced to the
family that he was going to Picardy to see a former partner on a matter
of business, and he departed accordingly, saying he should return before
long.

The day on which Bertrande again saw her uncle was, indeed, a terrible
one. She was sitting by the cradle of the lately-born infant, watching
for its awakening, when the door opened, and Pierre Guerre strode in.
Bertrande drew back with an instinct of terror as soon as she saw him,
for his expression was at once wicked and joyful--an expression of
gratified hate, of mingled rage and triumph, and his smile was terrible
to behold. She did not venture to speak, but motioned him to a seat. He
came straight up to her, and raising his head, said loudly--

"Kneel down at once, madame--kneel down, and ask pardon from Almighty
God!"

"Are you mad, Pierre?" she replied, gazing at him in astonishment.

"You, at least, ought to know that I am not."

"Pray for forgiveness--I--! and what for, in Heaven's name?"

"For the crime in which you are an accomplice."

"Please explain yourself."

"Oh!" said Pierre, with bitter irony, "a woman always thinks herself
innocent as long as her sin is hidden; she thinks the truth will never be
known, and her conscience goes quietly to sleep, forgetting her faults.
Here is a woman who thought her sins nicely concealed; chance favoured
her: an absent husband, probably no more; another man so exactly like him
in height, face, and manner that everyone else is deceived! Is it
strange that a weak, sensitive woman, wearied of widowhood, should
willingly allow herself to be imposed on?"

Bertrande listened without understanding; she tried to interrupt, but
Pierre went on--

"It was easy to accept this stranger without having to blush for it, easy
to give him the name and the rights of a husband! She could even appear
faithful while really guilty; she could seem constant, though really
fickle; and she could, under a veil of mystery, at once reconcile her
honour, her duty--perhaps even her love."

"What on earth do you mean?" cried Bertrande, wringing her hands in
terror.

"That you are countenancing an impostor who is not your husband."

Feeling as if the ground were passing from beneath her, Bertrande
staggered, and caught at the nearest piece of furniture to save herself
from falling; then, collecting all her strength to meet this
extraordinary attack, she faced the old man.

"What! my husband, your nephew, an impos