The spindle dropped to the floor, the distaff fell across her knees, and though she sat like a woman turned into stone and felt her heart freezing slowly in her bosom, the air which entered her nostrils seemed to her more pure than any she had breathed in years, and the fever seemed to have left her body. She began then quietly to array before her in this clear passionless light the facts of her situation as she must now consider it, no longer distorted through fear or shame or through the desire of the flesh. She knew that she would never again be able to pretend that this was the man whom she had married. Although she had loved him passionately and joyously, and perhaps loved him still, and although he was the father of her son, she must rid herself of him. But could she rid herself? If she asked him to go, would he go? If she were to accuse him publicly of his crime, could she prove it? And if she could not prove it, in bringing such an accusation would she not be wronging the entire family from Sanxi and herself to the least of the cousins and cousins-in-law? And what of her youngest son, the son of the impostor? Had he no claim upon her, that she should of her own free will dishonor his birth? Terror assailed her lest she be trapped inescapably, and in her profound agitation and fear she rose and paced back and forth in the long, silent room until she was fatigued and trembling. She crossed to the window, and, leaning on the high sill, looked down into the courtyard.
Dusk was gathering, an autumn dusk. The paving stones were black with damp, but by morning they would be lacy white. While she stood there, looking down, her husband rode into the yard. A boy ran to meet him, and led his horse away after he had dismounted. The smith, whose fire glowed dimly in the cold gray light, left his work for a moment to salute his master, and returned to his work, smiling and rubbing his blackened hands together; and the old housekeeper, she who had brought the réveillon to the child bride and groom, so many years ago, appeared on the doorstep, holding a cup of warm wine. The master paused on the threshold to drink the wine and thank the old woman, and Bertrande could see quite plainly the look of adoration with which she received the empty cup.
“How firmly he is entrenched,” she sighed. “How firmly.”
The next day, an occasion presenting itself as Martin’s younger sister was praising his conduct to his wife, Bertrande ventured:
“Yes, he is very kind, very gentle. One would almost say, is this the same man who so resembled in action and in feature your father?”
“One would almost say so,” assented the sister amiably.
“But I do say so,” returned Bertrande. “Often I ask myself, can this man be an impostor? And the true Martin Guerre, has he been slain in the wars?”
“Mother of Heaven,” replied the sister, shocked, “how can you say such a thing, even think so? It is enough to tempt the saints to anger. Oh, Bertrande, you have not said such a thing to anyone else, have you?”
“Oh, no,” she answered lightly.
“Then for the love of Our Lady, never speak of it again to me or to anyone. It is unkind. Martin could consider it an insult. He might be very angry if he heard it.”
“Very well,” said Bertrande. “I was jesting,” and she smiled, but her heart was sick.
At confession, kneeling in the stale, cold semi-darkness, her hands muffled in her black wool capuchon, her head bowed, she said, as she had long meditated but never dared:
“Father, I have believed my husband, who is now master of my house, not to be Martin Guerre whom I married. Believing this, I have continued to live with him. I have sinned greatly.”
“My child,” replied the voice of the priest, without indicating the least surprise, “for what reason have you suspected this man not to be the true Martin Guerre?”
“Ah, he also has suspected him,” said Bertrande to herself, and her heart gave a great leap of joy, like that of an imprisoned animal who sees the way to escape.
She replied to the priest as she had replied to her husband, giving instances of his behavior which seemed to her unnatural.
“What shall I do,” she besought him finally, “what shall I do to be forgiven?”
“Softly, my child,” said the calm voice of the priest. “It is then for his kindness to you that you accuse him?”
“Not for his kindness, but for the manner of his kindness.”
“No matter,” said the priest. “It is because of a great change in his spirit. He spoke to me of this long since, being concerned for you, and it seems to me that he has been toward you both wise and gentle. Go now in peace, my daughter. Be disturbed no more.”
Bertrande continued to kneel, only drawing her cloak closer about her shoulders. The cold air seemed to draw slowly through the meshes of the wool and rise from the cold stones on which she knelt. At last she replied incredulously:
“You then believe him to be no impostor?”
“Surely not,” said the easy voice of the priest, warm, definite and uncomprehending. “Surely not. Men change with the years, you must remember. Pray for understanding, my daughter, and go in peace.”
Slowly she got to her feet and slowly made her way through the obscurity to the doorway, pushed aside the unwieldy leather curtain, stepped outside into the freely moving air and the more spacious dusk, and descended the familiar steps.
Familiar figures passed her, greeting her as they went on into the church. She answered them as in a dream, and as in a dream took the path to her farm. She felt like one who has been condemned to solitude, whether of exile or of prison. All the circumstances of her life, the instruction of the church, her affection for her children and her kindred rose up about her in a wall implacable as stone, invisible as air, condemning her to silence and to the perpetuation of a sin which her soul had learned to abhor. She could not by any effort of the imagination return to the happy and deluded state of mind in which she had passed the first years since the return of her husband. The realization that she was again with child added to her woe, and the weight, such as she had carried before in her body joyously, now seemed the burden of her sin made actual and dragged her down at every step.
The path, turning to follow the contours of the mountainside, brought her after a time to the crest of a slope above her farm. There it lay, house, grange and stable, set about with its own orchards, its chimney smoking gently, infinitely more familiar, more her own after all these years than the house in which she had been born; yet as she looked down toward it from the hillside she thought that it was no longer hers. An enemy had taken possession of it and had treacherously drawn to his party all those who most owed her loyalty and trust. Her eyes filled with tears, and when she drew her hands away from her face, a commotion had arisen in the courtyard below. People were running about with torches, gathering into a group from which excited cries, staccato and sonorous, rose toward the hillside, and presently three figures on horseback detached themselves from the group and rode away, the hoofs ringing on the stones. She remembered then that Martin had promised to make one of a cordon for a bear hunt from the parish of Sode, and knew that these must be his neighbors come for him.
When she reached her doorway, the housekeeper greeted her.
“The Master is gone to Sode. Ah, they are fortunate to have him! He is famous as a hunter of bear.” She laughed, helping Bertrande to remove her cape; and did not see that her mistress’s face had been stained with tears.
The next evening as they sat together, her husband said to Bertrande:
“Why do you look at me so strangely with your lovely two-colored eyes, your lucky eyes?”
“I was wondering when you would leave me to return again to the wars.”
“I have told you never, never until you cease to love me.”
“I have ceased to love you. Will you go?”
Something in the quality of her voice restrained the man from jesting. “I do not believe you,” he said, courteously.
“You must believe