Uncle Pierre shrugged his shoulders.
“You must not be unreasonable,” he told her. “After all, there will be the expense of the trial.”
However, the investigation determined that the characters of Bertrande and Pierre were above reproach, and the case was ordered to proceed. In the interval, word of the dispute had gone round the countryside, and a great number of persons had either presented themselves voluntarily or had been called by the court as witnesses. On the morning when the case reopened, the chambers of the judges were crowded with interested persons, of whom no fewer than one hundred and fifty were present in the quality of witnesses.
The examination of relatives began, followed by that of the farm servants, then of neighbors from Artigues. Without a dissenting voice they all declared that the man in fetters was no other than Martin Guerre himself. The priest, being called, declared that the man was Martin and gave an eloquent account of Bertrande’s illness and her madness, as he had discussed it with her husband and herself.
The day was wearing to a close, and Bertrande, sadly, said to Pierre Guerre:
“Do not all these people begin to convince you that you may be mistaken?”
“I am not one to change my mind every five minutes,” said honest Pierre. “I have thought him a rogue, and a rogue he remains.”
The priest departed and a new witness was called.
“Your name?” said the judge.
“Jean Espagnol.”
“And whence do you come?”
“From Tonges, my lord.”
“Your occupation?”
“Soldier of fortune.”
“Do you know the prisoner?”
“That I do, my lord.”
“And by what name do you know him?”
“Arnaud du Tilh, my lord. Sometimes we call him Pansette.”
A murmur ran over the room. People stretched themselves, and Bertrande shot a glance at the accused man, whose face, however, showed no guilt, no surprise and only a very natural interest in the proceeding.
“And how long have you known the prisoner?”
“Oh, from the cradle, my lord.”
“Have you had any conversation with him of late?”
“My lord, he told me less than half a year ago that he was playing the part of one Martin Guerre, that he had met this said Guerre in the wars, and that this Guerre made over to him, for certain considerations, the whole of his estate and the permission to impersonate himself.”
“Ah, it is a lie,” cried the voice of Bertrande, passionately.
“Well said, Madame,” added the prisoner.
“Silence,” demanded the judge.
The witness spread his hands palm outwards with the expression of a man who has done his best for the cause of truth and justice, and, being dismissed, took his place again in the crowd.
From then on the case began to appear most dubious for the prisoner, for although it was rather a tall story that Martin Guerre would have made over all his possessions to a wandering rogue for whatever considerations, there were many witnesses examined who declared that the prisoner was in fact a Gascon by the name of Arnaud du Tilh. There were also among the witnesses called, some who were acquainted with both Martin Guerre and the rogue du Tilh. Of these, some said that the prisoner was Martin, some that he was Arnaud, and some declared themselves unable to decide between the two. The examination of witnesses ran on at such length that it was necessary to reconvene the court on the following day. Finally, when the last witness had given his testimony, the judges sent for Sanxi, and tried to find in his face some resemblance to the man who claimed to be his father. But since the boy so obviously resembled his father’s sisters, who were said to resemble their mother, rather than their father, the countenance of Sanxi was of little aid to the judges.
The judges withdrew and debated the case at length. Bertrande, sitting clasping and unclasping her hands, overheard two of the spectators who were commenting freely on the case. Said one:
“They have proved nothing against the man, and the woman demands a great sum of money.”
“If she denies him to be her husband,” said the other, “why did she not deny it immediately? She lived with him for three years without complaining. Why does she quarrel with him now?”
“She has lost her pains, without a doubt,” said the first.
“My God, my God,” said Bertrande, bowing her head and clasping and unclasping her long hands in a passion of despair, “deliver me from sin.”
The judges returned and prepared to speak:
“Whereas, out of one hundred and fifty witnesses called by this court of Rieux, forty have testified that the prisoner is Martin Guerre, sixty have refused to testify to his identity, and fifty have testified that he is none other than Arnaud du Tilh, and whereas the wife of Martin Guerre, whose opinion should bear more weight with us than that of any other living person, has testified that the prisoner is not her husband, we do affirm that the prisoner is in fact Arnaud du Tilh, commonly known as Pansette. And we do condemn the said Arnaud du Tilh to do public penance before the church of Artigues, and before the house of Martin Guerre, and to suffer death by decapitation before the house of Martin Guerre.”
A gasp as of astonishment and pity swept the room, and Bertrande de Rols, rising from her seat, cried out in a clear, terrified voice:
“Not death! Not death! No, no, I have not demanded his death!”
She stood, grown very pale, confronting the judges with surprise and horror in her features; and then, putting out her hand gropingly, she half-turned toward Pierre Guerre, and fell unconscious into his arms.
The prisoner had started also at Bertrande’s cry. In spite of the sentence just passed upon him, his eyes were clear, and his face bright, one would have said, with joy.
III. Toulouse
It is difficult to relate all that Bertrande de Rols suffered in the days which followed directly upon this decision. She returned to Artigues, to a house in which all peace and contentment had been destroyed. Nor was there anyone in Artigues, except Martin’s uncle, who did not by word or gesture blame her for this destruction. Sanxi regarded her with frightened, incredulous eyes, or slipped from a room as she entered, like a small animal who has been beaten continuously and without having offended. Nor was the matter ended. If the sentence had been carried through without delay, Bertrande felt, she might have borne the horror with some courage and reached, afterwards, a certain peace of finality, and time might have justified her action; but the case had been appealed at once by Martin’s sisters to the parliament of Toulouse, and the summer dragged forward through a long, heartbreaking uncertainty.
The wheat was harvested, but without exultation, and threshed, but without merriment. As in other years the water of the mountain stream was turned upon the stubble fields and ran in shining cascades across the parched and broken earth, but Bertrande de Rols did not walk out to see it, nor did it matter to her that the flowers sprang up after the passage of the water as if a carpet had suddenly been spread, a carpet of a thousand flowers and a thousand pleasant odors. During the last days of August word was brought to Artigues that the parliament of Toulouse had found the evidence inconclusive and had called the witnesses for a second trial.
The curé visited Bertrande.
“My daughter,” he said, as persuasive and kindly as if she had not now for almost a year steadily refused his advice, “it is no more than my duty to entreat you to consider once more that which you have undertaken.”
“Reverend