ed to understand; Bertrande continued, with
growing excitement--

"Yes, it was not enough to usurp the rights of a husband and father, he
thought to play his part still better by deceiving the mistress also . .
. . Ah! it is amusing, is it not? You also, Rose, you thought he was
your old lover! Well, I at least am excusable, I the wife, who only
thought she was faithful to her husband!"

"What does it all mean?" asked the terrified Rose.

"It means that this man is an impostor and that I will unmask him.
Revenge! revenge!"

Pierre came forward. "Bertrande," he said, "so long as I thought you
were happy, when I feared to disturb your peace, I was silent, I
repressed my just indignation, and I spared the usurper of the name and
rights of my nephew. Do you now give me leave to speak?"

"Yes," she replied in a hollow voice.

"You will not contradict me?"

By way of answer she sat down by the table and wrote a few hasty lines
with a trembling hand, then gave them to Pierre, whose eyes sparkled with
joy.

"Yes," he said, "vengeance for him, but for her pity. Let this
humiliation be her only punishment. I promised silence in return for
confession, will you grant it?"

Bertrande assented with a contemptuous gesture.

"Go, fear not," said the old man, and Rose went out. Pierre also left
the house.

Left to herself, Bertrande felt utterly worn out by so much emotion;
indignation gave way to depression. She began to realise what she had
done, and the scandal which would fall on her own head. Just then her
baby awoke, and held out its arms, smiling, and calling for its father.
Its father, was he not a criminal? Yes! but was it for her to ruin him,
to invoke the law, to send him to death, after having taken him to her
heart, to deliver him to infamy which would recoil on her own head and
her child's and on the infant which was yet unborn? If he had sinned
before God, was it not for God to punish him? If against herself, ought
she not rather to overwhelm him with contempt? But to invoke the help,
of strangers to expiate this offence; to lay bare the troubles of her
life, to unveil the sanctuary of the nuptial couch--in short, to summon
the whole world to behold this fatal scandal, was not that what in her
imprudent anger she had really done? She repented bitterly of her haste,
she sought to avert the consequences, and notwithstanding the night and
the bad weather, she hurried at once to Pierre's dwellin