uded from Bertrande's state of melancholy
that she had convinced herself of the fraud, but had resolved to conceal
it.

Martin was then endeavoring to sell a part of his property, and this
necessitated frequent interviews with the lawyers of the neighbouring
town. Twice in the week he went to Rieux, and to make the journey
easier, used to start horseback about seven in the evening, sleep at
Rieux, and return the following afternoon. This arrangement did not
escape his enemy's notice, who was not long in convincing himself that
part of the time ostensibly spent on this journey was otherwise employed.

Towards ten o'clock on the evening of a dark night, the door of a small
house lying about half a gunshot from the village opened gently for the
exit of a man wrapped in a large cloak, followed by a young woman, who
accompanied him some distance. Arrived at the parting point, they
separated with a tender kiss and a few murmured words of adieu; the lover
took his horse, which was fastened to a tree, mounted, and rode off
towards Rieux. When the sounds died away, the woman turned slowly and
sadly towards her home, but as she approached the door a man suddenly
turned the corner of the house and barred her away. Terrified, she was
on the point of crying for help, when he seized her arm and ordered her
to be silent.

"Rose," he whispered, "I know everything: that man is your lover. In
order to receive him safely, you send your old husband to sleep by means
of a drug stolen from your father's shop. This intrigue has been going
on for a month; twice a week, at seven o'clock, your door is opened to
this man, who does not proceed on his way to the town until ten. I know
your lover: he is my nephew."

Petrified with terror, Rose fell on her knees and implored mercy.

"Yes," replied Pierre, "you may well be frightened: I have your secret.
I have only to publish it and you are ruined for ever:"

You will not do it! "entreated the guilty woman, clasping her hands.

"I have only to tell your husband," continued Pierre, "that his wife has
dishonoured him, and to explain the reason of his unnaturally heavy
sleep."

"He will kill me!"

"No doubt: he is jealous, he is an Italian, he will know how to avenge
himself--even as I do."

"But I never did you any harm," Rose cried in despair. "Oh! have pity,
have mercy, and spare me!"

"On one condition."

"What is it?"

"Come with me."

Terrified almost out of her mind,