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Updated: September 1, 2025
Bertrande observed this, but without uneasiness; she had suffered too much from her former suspicions, besides her husband showed her so much affection that she was now quite happy. When the first few days were over, Martin began to look into his affairs.
"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.
Convinced at length of the deception, Bertrande suffered inexpressible anguish. This man whom she had loved and respected for two whole years, whom she had taken to her heart as a husband bitterly mourned for this man was a cheat, an infamous impostor, and she, all unknowing, was yet a guilty woman! Her child was illegitimate, and the curse of Heaven was due to this sacrilegious union.
Or are you only pretending, in order to find a rag of excuse to cover your wickedness?" It was now Rose who failed 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?
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.
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. "I learned that the wounded man had his leg taken off, and, as the surgeon predicted, he must have died in a few hours, for he was never seen again."
"Ah! forgive me, Martin, forgive me!" she interrupted, in confusion. "In your blind anger you took up, I know not what, something which lay handy, and flung it at me. And here is the mark," he continued, smiling, "this scar, which is still to be seen." "Oh, Martin!" Bertrande exclaimed, "can you ever forgive me?" "As you see," Martin replied, kissing her tenderly.
Bertrande was delighted at this reconciliation, and dreamed only of happiness.
Besides, since his return, he would never write in her presence, did he fear that she would notice some difference? She had paid little or no attention to these trifles; now, pieced together, they assumed an alarming importance. An appalling terror seized Bertrande: was she to remain in this uncertainty, or should she seek an explanation which might prove her destruction?
He approached her and besought her in the gentlest accents not to persist in an accusation which might send him to the scaffold, not thus to avenge any sins he might have committed against her, although he could not reproach himself with any really serious fault. Bertrande started, and murmured in a whisper, "And Rose?" "Ah!" Arnauld exclaimed, astonished at this revelation.
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