ched; for her looks
hung upon his, and she observed his coldness and change with much grief.
Having sacrificed all in order to retain his love, she now saw it slowly
slipping away from her.

Another person also observed attentively. Pierre Guerre since his
explanation with Bertrande had apparently discovered no more evidence,
and did not dare to bring an accusation without some positive proofs.
Consequently he lost no chance of watching the proceedings of his
supposed nephew, silently hoping that chance might put him on the track
of a discovery. He also concluded 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 a