d 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 impostor!"

"Don't you know it?" "I!!"

This cry, which came from her heart, convinced Pierre that she did not
know, and that she had sustained a terrible shock. He continued more
quietly--

"What, Bertrande, is it possible you were really deceived?"

"Pierre, you are killing me; your words are torture. No more mystery,
I entreat. What do you know? What do you suspect? Tell me plainly at
once."

"Have you courage to hear it?"

"I must," said the trembling woman.

"God is my witness that I would willingly have kept it from you, but you
must know; if only for the safety of your soul entangled in so deadly
a snare... there is yet time, if you follow my advice. Listen: the man
with whom you are living, who dares to call himself Martin Guerre, is a
cheat, an impostor----"

"How dare you say so?"

"Because I have discovered it. Yes, I had always a vague suspicion, an
uneasy feeling, and in spite of the marvellous resemblance I could never
feel as if he were really my sister's child. The day he raised his
hand to strike me--yes, that day I condemned him utterly.... Chance has
justified me! A wandering Spaniard, an old soldier, who spent a night in
the village here, was also present at the battle of St. Quentin, and
saw Martin Guerre receive a terrible gunshot wound in the leg. After the
battle, being wounded, he betook himself to the neighbouring village,
and distinctly heard a surgeon in the next room say that a wounded
man must have his leg amputated, and would very likely not survive the
operation. The door opened, he saw the sufferer, and knew him for Martin
Guerre. So much the Spaniard told me. Acting on this information, I
went on pretence of business to the village he named, I questioned the
inhabitants, and this is what I learned."

"Well?" said Bertrande, pale, and gasping with emotion.

"