Rose allowed him to lead her away.

Bertrande had just finished her evening prayer, and was preparing for
bed, when she was startled by several knocks at her door. Thinking that
perhaps some neighbour was in need of help, she opened it immediately,
and to her astonishment beheld a dishevelled woman whom Pierre grasped by
the arm. He exclaimed vehemently--

"Here is thy judge! Now, confess all to Bertrande!"

Bertrande did not at once recognise the woman, who fell at her feet,
overcome by Pierre's threats.

"Tell the truth here," he continued, "or I go and tell it to your
husband, at your own home!"--"Ah! madame, kill me," said the unhappy
creature, hiding her face; "let me rather die by your hand than his!"

Bertrande, bewildered, did not understand the position in the least, but
she recognised Rose--

"But what is the matter, madame? Why are you here at this hour, pale and
weeping? Why has my uncle dragged you hither? I am to judge you, does
he say? Of what crime are you guilty?"

"Martin might answer that, if he were here," remarked Pierre.

A lightning flash of jealousy shot through Bertrande's soul at these
words, all her former suspicions revived.

"What!" she said, "my husband! What do you mean?"

"That he left this woman's house only a little while ago, that for a
month they have been meeting secretly. You are betrayed: I have seen
them and she does not dare to deny it."

"Have mercy!" cried Rose, still kneeling.

The cry was a confession. Bertrande became pate as death. "O God!" she
murmured, "deceived, betrayed--and by him!"

"For a month past," repeated the old man.

"Oh! the wretch," she continued, with increasing passion; "then his whole
life is a lie! He has abused my credulity, he now abuses my love! He
does not know me! He thinks he can trample on me--me, in whose power are
his fortune, his honour, his very life itself!"

Then, turning to Rose--

"And you, miserable woman! by what unworthy artifice did you gain his
love? Was it by witchcraft? or some poisonous philtre learned from your
worthy father?"

"Alas! no, madame; my weakness is my only crime, and also my only excuse.
I loved him, long ago, when I was only a young girl, and these memories
have been my ruin."

"Memories? What! did you also think you were loving the same man? Are
you also his dupe? Or are you only pretending, in order to find a rag of
excuse to cover your wickedness?"

It was now Rose who fail