"Farewell, my brother!"
The wounded soldier utters a feeble groan; the adventurer leaves the
room.
Four months later, a woman sat at the door of a house at one end of the
village of Artigues, near Rieux, and played with a child about nine or
ten years of age. Still young, she had the brown complexion of Southern
women, and her beautiful black hair fell in curls about her face. Her
flashing eyes occasionally betrayed hidden passions, concealed, however,
beneath an apparent indifference and lassitude, and her wasted form
seemed to acknowledge the existence of some secret grief. An observer
would have divined a shattered life, a withered happiness, a soul
grievously wounded.
Her dress was that of a wealthy peasant; and she wore one of the long
gowns with hanging sleeves which were in fashion in the sixteenth
century. The house in front of which she sat belonged to her, so also
the immense field which adjoined the garden. Her attention was divided
between the play of her son and the orders she was giving to an old
servant, when an exclamation from the child startled her.
"Mother!" he cried, "mother, there he is!"
She looked where the child pointed, and saw a young boy turning the
corner of the street.
"Yes," continued the child, "that is the lad who, when I was playing
with the other boys yesterday, called me all sorts of bad names."
"What sort of names, my child?"
"There was one I did not understand, but it must have been a very bad
one, for the other boys all pointed at me, and left me alone. He called
me--and he said it was only what his mother had told him--he called me a
wicked bastard!"
His mother's face became purple with indignation. "What!" she cried,
"they dared! . . . What an insult!"
"What does this bad word mean, mother?" asked the child, half frightened
by her anger. "Is that what they call poor children who have no father?"
His mother folded him in her arms. "Oh!" she continued, "it is an
infamous slander! These people never saw your father, they have only
been here six years, and this is the eighth since he went away, but this
is abominable! We were married in that church, we came at once to live
in this house, which was my marriage portion, and my poor Martin has
relations and friends here who will not allow his wife to be insulted--"
"Say rather, his widow," interrupted a solemn voice.
"Ah! uncle!" exclaimed the woman, turning towards an old man who had
just emerged from the house.
"Yes, Bertrande," continued the new-comer, "you must get reconciled to
the idea that my nephew has ceased to exist. I am sure he was not such a
fool as to have remained all this time without letting us hear from him.
He was not the fellow to go off at a tangent, on account of a domestic
quarrel which you have never vouchsafed to explain to me, and to retain
his anger during all these eight years! Where did he go? What did he do?
We none of us know, neither you nor I, nor anybody else. He is assuredly
dead, and lies in some graveyard far enough from here. May God have
mercy on his soul!"
Bertrande, weeping, made the sign of the cross, and bowed her head upon
her hands.
"Good-bye, Sanxi," said the uncle, tapping the child's,' cheek. Sanxi
turned sulkily away.
There was certainly nothing specially attractive about the uncle: he
belonged to a type which children instinctively dislike, false, crafty,
with squinting eyes which continually appeared to contradict his honeyed
tongue.
"Bertrande," he said, "your boy is like his father before him, and only
answers my kindness with rudeness."
"Forgive him," answered the mother; "he is very young, and does not
understand the respect due to his father's uncle. I will teach him
better things; he will soon learn that he ought to be grateful for the
care you have taken of his little property."
"No doubt, no doubt," said the uncle, trying hard to smile. "I will give
you a good account of it, for I shall only have to reckon with you two
in future. Come, my dear, believe me, your husband is really dead, and
you have sorrowed quite enough for a good-for-nothing fellow. Think no
more of him."
So saying, he departed, leaving the poor young woman a prey to the
saddest thoughts.
Bertrande de Rolls, naturally gifted with extreme sensibility, on which
a careful education had imposed due restraint, had barely completed her
twelfth year when she was married to Martin Guerre, a boy of about the
same age, such precocious unions being then not uncommon, especially in
the Southern provinces. They were generally settled by considerations of
family interest, assisted by the extremely early development habitual to
the climate. The young couple lived for a long time as brother and
sister, and Bertrande, thus early familiar with the idea of domestic
happiness, bestowed her whole affection on the youth whom she had been
taught to regard as her life's companion. He was the Alpha and Omega of
her existence; all her love, all her thoughts, were given to him, and
when their marriage was at length completed, the birth of a son seemed
only another link in the already long existing bond of union. But, as
many wise men have remarked, a uniform happiness, which only attaches
women more and more, has often upon men a precisely contrary effect, and
so it was with Martin Guerre. Of a lively and excitable temperament, he
wearied of a yoke which had been imposed so early, and, anxious to see
the world and enjoy some freedom, he one day took advantage of a
domestic difference, in which Bertrande owned herself to have been
wrong, and left his house and family. He was sought and awaited in vain.
Bertrande spent the first month in vainly expecting his return, then she
betook herself to prayer; but Heaven appeared deaf to her supplications,
the truant returned not. She wished to go in search of him, but the
world is wide, and no single trace remained to guide her. What torture
for a tender heart! What suffering for a soul thirsting for love! What
sleepless nights! What restless vigils! Years passed thus; her son was
growing up, yet not a word reached her from the man she loved so much.
She spoke often of him to the uncomprehending child, she sought to
discover his features in those of her boy, but though she endeavoured to
concentrate her whole affection on her son, she realised that there is
suffering which maternal love cannot console, and tears which it cannot
dry. Consumed by the strength of the sorrow which ever dwelt in her
heart, the poor woman was slowly wasting, worn out by the regrets of the
past, the vain desires of the present, and the dreary prospect of the
future. And now she had been openly insulted, her feelings as a mother
wounded to the quirk; and her husband's uncle, instead of defending and
consoling her, could give only cold counsel and unsympathetic words!
Pierre Guerre, indeed, was simply a thorough egotist. In his youth he
had been charged with usury; no one knew by what means he had become
rich, for the little drapery trade which he called his profession did
not appear to be very profitable.
After his nephew's departure it seemed only natural that he should pose
as the family guardian, and he applied himself to the task of increasing
the little income, but without considering himself bound to give any
account to Bertrande. So, once persuaded that Martin was no more, he was
apparently not unwilling to prolong a situation so much to his own
advantage.
Night was fast coming on; in the dim twilight distant objects became
confused and indistinct. It was the end of autumn, that melancholy
season which suggests so many gloomy thoughts and recalls so many
blighted hopes. The child had gone into the house. Bertrande, still
sitting at the door, resting her forehead on her hand, thought sadly of
her uncle's words; recalling in imagination the past scenes which they
suggested, the time of their childhood, when, married so young, they
were as yet only playmates, prefacing the graver duties of life by
innocent pleasures; then of the love which grew with their increasing
age; then of how this love became altered, changing on her side into
passion, on his into indifference. She tried to recollect him as he had
been on the eve of his departure, young and handsome, carrying his head
high, coming home from a fatiguing hunt and sitting by his son's cradle;
and then also she remembered bitterly the jealous suspicions she had
conceived, the anger with which she had allowed them to escape her, the
consequent quarrel, followed by the disappearance of her offended
husband, and the eight succeeding years of solitude and mourning. She
wept over his desertion; over the desolation of her life, seeing around
her only indifferent or selfish people, and caring only to live for her
child's sake, who gave her at least a shadowy reflection of the husband
she had lost. "Lost--yes, lost for ever!" she said to herself, sighing,
and looking again at the fields whence she had so often seen him coming
at this same twilight hour, returning to his home for the evening meal.
She cast a wandering eye on the distant hills, which showed a black
outline against a yet fiery western sky, then let it fall on a little
grove of olive trees planted on the farther side of the brook which
skirted her dwelling. Everything was calm; approaching night brought
silence along with darkness: it was exactly what she saw every evening,
but to leave which required always an effort.
She rose to re-enter the house, when her attention was caught by a
movement amongst the trees. For a moment she thought she was mistaken,
but the branches again rustled, then parted asunder, and the form of a
man appeared on the other side of the brook. Terrified, Bertrande tried
to scream, but not a sound escaped her lips; her voice seemed paralyzed
by terror, as in an evil dream. And she almost thought it was a dream,
for notwithstanding the dark shadows cast around this indistinct
semblance, she seemed to recognise features once dear to her. Had her
bitter reveries ended by making her the victim of a hallucination? She
thought her brain was giving way, and sank on her knees to pray for
help. But the figure remained; it stood motionless, with folded arms,
silently gazing at her! Then she thought of witchcraft, of evil demons,
and superstitious as every one was in those days, she kissed a crucifix
which hung from her neck, and fell fainting on the ground. With one
spring the phantom crossed the brook and stood beside her.
"Bertrande!" it said in a voice of emotion. She raised her head, uttered
a piercing cry, and was clasped in her husband's arms.
The whole village became aware of this event that same evening. The
neighbours crowded round Bertrande's door, Martin's friends and
relations naturally wishing to see him after this miraculous
reappearance, while those who had never known him desired no less to
gratify their curiosity; so that the hero of the little drama, instead
of remaining quietly at home with his wife, was obliged to exhibit
himself publicly in a neighbouring barn. His four sisters burst through
the crowd and fell on his neck weeping; his uncle examined him
doubtfully at first, then extended his arms. Everybody recognised him,
beginning with the old servant Margherite, who had been with the young
couple ever since their wedding-day. People observed only that a riper
age had strengthened his features, and given more character to his
countenance and more development to his powerful figure; also that he
had a scar over the right eyebrow, and that he limped slightly. These
were the marks of wounds he had received, he said; which now no longer
troubled him. He appeared anxious to return to his wife and child, but
the crowd insisted on hearing the story of his adventures during his
voluntary absence, and he was obliged to satisfy them. Eight years ago,
he said, the desire to see more of the world had gained an irresistible
mastery over him; he yielded to it, and departed secretly. A natural
longing took him to his birthplace in Biscay, where he had seen his
surviving relatives. There he met the Cardinal of Burgos, who took him
into his service, promising him profit, hard knocks to give and take,
and plenty of adventure. Some time after, he left the cardinal's
household for that of his brother, who, much against his will, compelled
him to follow him to the war and bear arms against the French. Thus he
found himself on the Spanish side on the day of St. Quentin, and
received a terrible gun-shot wound in the leg. Being carried into a
house a an adjoining village, he fell into the hands of a surgeon, who
insisted that the leg must be amputated immediately, but who left him
for a moment, and never returned. Then he encountered a good old woman,
who dressed his wound and nursed him night and day. So that in a few
weeks he recovered, and was able to set out for Artigues, too thankful
to return to his house and land, still more to his wife and child, and
fully resolved never to leave them again.
Having ended his story, he shook hands with his still wondering
neighbours, addressing by name some who had been very young when he
left, and who, hearing their names, came forward now as grown men,
hardly recognisable, but much pleased at being remembered. He returned
his sisters' carresses, begged his uncle's forgiveness for the trouble
he had given in his boyhood, recalling with mirth the various
corrections received. He mentioned also an Augustinian monk who had
taught him to read, and another reverend father, a Capuchin, whose
irregular conduct had caused much scandal in the neighbourhood. In
short, notwithstanding his prolonged absence, he seemed to have a
perfect recollection of places, persons, and things. The good people
overwhelmed him with congratulations, vying with one another in praising
him for having the good sense to come home, and in describing the grief
and the perfect virtue of his Bertrande. Emotion was excited, many wept,
and several bottles from Martin Guerre's cellar were emptied. At length
the assembly dispersed, uttering many exclamations about the
extraordinary chances of Fate, and retired to their own homes, excited,
astonished, and gratified, with the one exception of old Pierre Guerre,
who had been struck by an unsatisfactory remark made by his nephew, and
who dreamed all night about the chances of pecuniary loss augured by the
latter's return.
It was midnight before the husband and wife were alone and able to give
vent to their feelings. Bertrande still felt half stupefied; she could
not believe her own eyes and ears, nor realise that she saw again in her
marriage chamber her husband of eight years ago, him for whom she had
wept; whose death she had deplored only a few hours previously. In the
sudden shock caused by so much joy succeeding so much grief, she had not
been able to express what she felt; her confused ideas were difficult to
explain, and she seemed deprived of the powers of speech and reflection.
When she became calmer and more capable of analysing her feelings, she
was astonished not to feel towards her husband the same affection which
had moved her so strongly a few hours before. It was certainly himself,
those were the same features, that was the man to whom she had willingly
given her hand, her heart, herself, and yet now that she saw him again a
cold barrier of shyness, of modesty, seemed to have risen between them.
His first kiss, even, had not made her happy: she blushed and felt
saddened--a curious result of the long absence! She could not define the
changes wrought by years in his appearance: his countenance seemed
harsher, yet the lines of his face, his outer man, his whole
personality, did not seem altered, but his soul had changed its nature,
a different mind looked forth from those eyes. Bertrande knew him for
her husband, and yet she hesitated. Even so Penelope, on the, return of
Ulysses, required a certain proof to confirm the evidence of her eyes,
and her long absent husband had to remind her of secrets known only to
herself.
Martin, however, as if he understood Bertrande's feeling and divined
some secret mistrust, used the most tender and affectionate phrases, and
even the very pet names which close intimacy had formerly endeared to
them.
"My queen," he said, "my beautiful dove, can you not lay aside your
resentment? Is it still so strong that no submission can soften it?
Cannot my repentance find grace in your eyes? My Bertrande, my Bertha,
my Bertranilla, as I used to call you."
She tried to smile, but stopped short, puzzled; the names were the very
same, but the inflexion of voice quite different.
Martin took her hands in his. "What pretty hands! Do you still wear my
ring? Yes, here it is, and with it the sapphire ring I gave you the day
Sanxi was born."
Bertrande did not answer, but she took the child and placed him in his
father's arms.
Martin showered caresses on his son, and spoke of the time when he
carried him as a baby in the garden, lifting him up to the fruit trees,
so that he could reach and try to bite the fruit. He recollected one day
when the poor child got his leg terribly torn by thorns, and convinced
himself, not without emotion, that the scar could still be seen.
Bertrande was touched by this display of affectionate recollections, and
felt vexed at her own coldness. She came up to Martin and laid her hand
in his. He said gently--
"My departure caused you great grief: I now repent what I did. But I was
young, I was proud, and your reproaches were unjust."
"Ah," said she, "you have not forgotten the cause of our quarrel?"
"It was little Rose, our neighbour, whom you said I was making love to,
because you found us together at the spring in the little wood. I
explained that we met only by chance,--besides, she was only a
child,--but you would not listen, and in your anger--"
"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.
Much moved, Bertrande swept aside his hair, and looked at the scar
visible on his forehead.
"But," she said, with surprise not free from alarm, "this scar seems to
me like a fresh one."
"Ah!" Martin explained, with a, little embarrassment; "it reopened
lately. But I had thought no more about it. Let us forget it, Bertrande;
I should not like a recollection which might make you think yourself
less dear to me than you once were."
And he drew her upon his knee. She repelled him gently.
"Send the child to bed," said Martin. "Tomorrow shall be for him;
to-night you have the first place, Bertrande, you only."
The boy kissed his father and went.
Bertrande came and knelt beside her husband, regarding him attentively
with an uneasy smile, which did not appear to please him by any means.
"What is the matter?" said he. "Why do you examine me thus?"
"I do not know--forgive me, oh! forgive me! . . . But the happiness of
seeing you was so great and unexpected, it is all like a dream. I must
try to become accustomed to it; give me some time to collect myself; let
me spend this night in prayer. I ought to offer my joy and my
thanksgiving to Almighty God--"
"Not so," interrupted her husband, passing his arms round her neck and
stroking her beautiful hair. "No; 'tis to me that your first thoughts
are due. After so much weariness, my rest is in again beholding you, and
my happiness after so many trials will be found in your love. That hope
has supported me throughout, and I long to be assured that it is no
illusion." So saying, he endeavoured to raise her.
"Oh," she murmured, "I pray you leave me."
"What!" he exclaimed angrily. "Bertrande, is this your love? Is it thus
you keep faith with me? You will make me doubt the evidence of your
friends; you will make me think that indifference, or even another
love----"
"You insult me," said Bertrande, rising to her feet.
He caught her in his arms. "No, no; I think nothing which could wound
you, my queen, and I believe your fidelity, even as before, you know, on
that first journey, when you wrote me these loving letters which I have
treasured ever since. Here they are." And he drew forth some papers, on
which Bertrande recognised her own handwriting. "Yes," he continued, "I
have read and--re-read them.... See, you spoke then of your love and the
sorrows of absence. But why all this trouble and terror? You tremble,
just as you did when I first received you from your father's hands....
It was here, in this very room.... You begged me then to leave you, to
let you spend the night in prayer; but I insisted, do you remember? and
pressed you to my heart, as I do now."
"Oh," she murmured weakly, "have pity!"
But the words were intercepted by a kiss, and the remembrance of the
past, the happiness of the present, resumed their sway; the imaginary
terrors were forgotten, and the curtains closed around the marriage-bed.
The next day was a festival in the village of Artigues. Martin returned
the visits of all who had come to welcome him the previous night, and
there were endless recognitions and embracings. The young men remembered
that he had played with them when they were little; the old men, that
they had been at his wedding when he was only twelve.
The women remembered having envied Bertrande, especially the pretty
Rose, daughter of Marcel, the apothecary, she who had roused the demon
of jealousy in, the poor wife's heart. And Rose knew quite well that the
jealousy was not without some cause; for Martin had indeed shown her
attention, and she was unable to see him again without emotion. She was
now the wife of a rich peasant, ugly, old, and jealous, and she
compared, sighing, her unhappy lot with that of her more fortunate
neighbour. Martin's sisters detained him amongst them, and spoke of
their childish games and of their parents, both dead in Biscay. Martin
dried the tears which flowed at these recollections of the past, and
turned their thoughts to rejoicing. Banquets were given and received.
Martin invited all his relations and former friends; an easy gaiety
prevailed. It was remarked that the hero of the feast refrained from
wine; he was thereupon reproached, but answered that on account of the
wounds he had received he was obliged to avoid excess. The excuse was
admitted, the result of Martin's precautions being that he kept a clear
head on his shoulders, while all the rest had their tongues loosed by
drunkenness.
"Ah!" exclaimed one of the guests, who had studied a little medicine,
"Martin is quite right to be afraid of drink. Wounds which have
thoroughly healed may be reopened and inflamed by intemperance, and wine
in the case of recent wounds is deadly poison. Men have died on the
field of battle in an hour or two merely because they had swallowed a
little brandy."
Martin Guerre grew pale, and began a conversation with the pretty Rose,
his neighbour. 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. His property had suffered by his long absence, and he was
obliged to go to Biscay to claim his little estate there, the law having
already laid hands upon it. It was several months before, by dint of
making judicious sacrifices, he could regain possession of the house and
fields which had belonged to his father. This at last accomplished, he
returned to Artigues, in order to resume the management of his wife's
property, and with this end in view, about eleven months after his
return, he paid a visit to his uncle Pierre.
Pierre was expecting him; he was extremely polite, desired Martin, to
sit down, overwhelmed him with compliments, knitting his brows as he
discovered that his nephew decidedly meant business. Martin broke
silence.
"Uncle," he said, "I come to thank you for the care you have taken of my
wife's property; she could never have managed it alone. You have
received the income in the family interest: as a good guardian, I
expected no less from your affection. But now that I have returned, and
am free from other cares, we will go over the accounts, if you please."
His uncle coughed and cleared his voice before replying, then said
slowly, as if counting his words--
"It is all accounted for, my dear nephew; Heaven be praised! I don't owe
you anything."
"What!" exclaimed the astonished Martin, "but the whole income?"
"Was well and properly employed in the maintenance of your wife and
child."
"What! a thousand livres for that? And Bertrande lived alone, so quietly
and simply! Nonsense! it is impossible."
"Any surplus," resumed the old man, quite unmoved,--"any surplus went to
pay the expenses of seed-time and harvest."
"What! at a time when labour costs next to nothing?"
"Here is the account," said Pierre.
"Then the account is a false one," returned his nephew.
Pierre thought it advisable to appear extremely offended and angry, and
Martin, exasperated at his evident dishonesty, took still higher ground,
and threatened to bring an action against him. Pierre ordered him to
leave the house, and suiting actions to words, took hold of his arm to
enforce his departure. Martin, furious, turned and raised his fist to
strike.
"What! strike your uncle, wretched boy!" exclaimed the old man.
Martin's hand dropped, but he left the house uttering reproaches and
insults, among which Pierre distinguished--
"Cheat that you are!"
"That is a word I shall remember," cried the angry old man, slamming his
door violently.
Martin brought an action before the judge at Rieux, and in course of
time obtained a decree, which, reviewing the accounts presented by
Pierre, disallowed them, and condemned the dishonest guardian to pay his
nephew four hundred livres for each year of his administration. The day
on which this sum had to be disbursed from his strong box the old usurer
vowed vengeance, but until he could gratify his hatred he was forced to
conceal it, and to receive attempts at reconciliation with a friendly
smile. It was not until six months later, on the occasion of a joyous
festivity, that Martin again set foot in his uncle's house. The bells
were ringing for the birth of a child, there was great gaiety at
Bertrande's house, where all the guests were waiting on the threshold
for the godfather in order to take the infant to church, and when Martin
appeared, escorting his uncle, who was adorned with a huge bouquet for
the occasion, and who now came forward and took the hand of Rose, the
pretty godmother, there were cries of joy on all sides. Bertrande was
delighted at this reconciliation, and dreamed only of happiness. She was
so happy now, her long sorrow was atoned for, her regret was at an end,
her prayers seemed to have been heard, the long interval between the
former delights and the present seemed wiped out as if the bond of union
had never been broken, and if she remembered her grief at all, it was
only to intensify the new joys by comparison. She loved her husband more
than ever; he was full of affection for her, and she was grateful for
his love. The past had now no shadow, the future no cloud, and the birth
of a daughter, drawing still closer the links which united them, seemed
a new pledge of felicity. Alas! the horizon which appeared so bright and
clear to the poor woman was doomed soon again to be overcast.
The very evening of the christening party, a band of musicians and
jugglers happened to pass through the village, and the inhabitants
showed themselves liberal. Pierre asked questions, and found that the
leader of the band was a Spaniard. He invited the man to his own house,
and remained closeted with him for nearly an hour, dismissing him at
length with a refilled purse. Two days later the old man announced to
the family that he was going to Picardy to see a former partner on a
matter of business, and he departed accordingly, saying he should return
before long.
The day on which Bertrande again saw her uncle was, indeed, a terrible
one. She was sitting by the cradle of the lately-born infant, watching
for its awakening, when the door opened, and Pierre Guerre strode in.
Bertrande drew back with an instinct of terror as soon as she saw him,
for his expression was at once wicked and joyful--an expression of
gratified hate, of mingled rage and triumph, and his smile was terrible
to behold. She did not venture to speak, but motioned him to a seat. He
came straight up to her, and raising his head, said loudly--
"Kneel down at once, madame--kneel down, and ask pardon from Almighty
God!"
"Are you mad, Pierre?" she replied, gazing at him in astonishment.
"You, at least, ought to know that I am not."
"Pray for forgiveness--I--! and what for, in Heaven's name?"
"For the crime in which you are an accomplice."
"Please explain yourself."
"Oh!" said Pierre, with bitter irony, "a woman always thinks herself
innocent as long as her sin is hidden; she thinks the truth will never
be known, and her conscience goes quietly to sleep, forgetting her
faults. Here is a woman who thought her sins nicely concealed; chance
favoured her: an absent husband, probably no more; another man so
exactly like him in height, face, and manner that everyone else is
deceived! Is it strange that a weak, sensitive woman, wearied of
widowhood, should willingly allow herself to be imposed on?"
Bertrande listened without understanding; she tried to interrupt, but
Pierre went on--
"It was easy to accept this stranger without having to blush for it,
easy to give him the name and the rights of a husband! She could 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.
"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."
Bertrande remained a few moments as if annihilated by this appalling
revelation; then, endeavoring to repel the horrible thought--
"No," she cried, "no, it is impossible! It is a lie intended to ruin
him-to ruin us all."
"What! you do not believe me?"
"No, never, never!"
"Say rather you pretend to disbelieve me: the truth has pierced your
heart, but you wish to deny it. Think, however, of the danger to your
immortal soul."
"Silence, wretched man!... No, God would not send me so terrible a
trial. What proof can you show of the truth of your words?"
"The witnesses I have mentioned."
"Nothing more?"
"No, not as yet."
"Fine proofs indeed! The story of a vagabond who flattered your hatred
in hope of a reward, the gossip of a distant village, the recollections
of ten years back, and finally, your own word, the word of a man who
seeks only revenge, the word of a man who swore to make Martin pay
dearly for the results of his own avarice, a man of furious passions
such as yours! No, Pierre, no, I do not believe you, and I never will!"
"Other people may perhaps be less incredulous, and if I accuse him
publicly----"
"Then I shall contradict you publicly!" And coming quickly forward, her
eyes shining with virtuous anger--
"Leave this house, go," she said; "it is you yourself who are the
impostor--go!"
"I shall yet know how to convince everyone, and will make you
acknowledge it," cried the furious old man.
He went out, and Bertrande sank exhausted into a chair. All the strength
which had supported her against Pierre vanished as soon as she was
alone, and in spite of her resistance to suspicion, the terrible light
of doubt penetrated her heart, and extinguished the pure torch of
trustfulness which had guided her hitherto--a doubt, alas! which
attacked at once her honour and her love, for she loved with all a
woman's tender affection. Just as actual poison gradually penetrates and
circulates through the whole system, corrupting the blood and affecting
the very sources of life until it causes the destruction of the whole
body, so does that mental poison, suspicion, extend its ravages in the
soul which has received it. Bertrande remembered with terror her first
feelings at the sight of the returned Martin Guerre, her involuntary
repugnance, her astonishment at not feeling more in touch with the
husband whom she had so sincerely regretted. She remembered also, as if
she saw it for the first time, that Martin, formerly quick, lively, and
hasty tempered, now seemed thoughtful, and fully master of himself.
This change of character she had supposed due to the natural development
of age, she now trembled at the idea of another possible cause. Some
other little details began to occur to her mind--the forgetfulness or
abstraction of her husband as to a few insignificant things; thus it
sometimes happened that he did not answer to his name of Martin, also
that he mistook the road to a hermitage, formerly well known to them
both, and again that he could not answer when addressed in Basque,
although he him self had taught her the little she knew of this
language. 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? And how discover the truth--by
questioning the guilty man, by noting his confusion, his change of
colour, by forcing a confession from him? But she had lived with him for
two years, he was the father of her child, she could not ruin him
without ruining herself, and, an explanation once sought, she could
neither punish him and escape disgrace, nor pardon him without sharing
his guilt. To reproach him with his conduct and then keep silence would
destroy her peace for ever; to cause a scandal by denouncing him would
bring dishonour upon herself and her child. Night found her involved in
these hideous perplexities, too weak to surmount them; an icy chill came
over her, she went to bed, and awoke in a high fever. For several days
she hovered between life and death, and Martin Guerre bestowed the most
tender care upon her. She was greatly moved thereby, having one of those
impressionable minds which recognise kindness fully as much as injury.
When she was a little recovered and her mental power began to return,
she had only a vague recollection of what had occurred, and thought she
had had a frightful dream. She asked if Pierre Guerre had been to see
her, and found he had not been near the house. This could only be
explained by the scene which had taken place, and she then recollected
all the accusation Pierre had made, her own observations which had
confirmed it, all her grief and trouble. She inquired about the village
news. Pierre, evidently, had kept silence why? Had he seen that his
suspicions were unjust, or was he only seeking further evidence? She
sank back into her cruel uncertainty, and resolved to watch Martin
closely, before deciding as to his guilt or innocence.
How was she to suppose that God had created two faces so exactly alike,
two beings precisely similar, and then sent them together into the
world, and on the same track, merely to compass the ruin of an unhappy
woman! A terrible idea took possession of her mind, an idea not uncommon
in an age of superstition, namely, that the Enemy himself could assume
human form, and could borrow the semblance of a dead man in order to
capture another soul for his infernal kingdom. Acting on this idea, she
hastened to the church, paid for masses to be said, and prayed
fervently. She expected every day to see the demon forsake the body he
had animated, but her vows, offerings, and prayers had no result. But
Heaven sent her an idea which she wondered had not occurred to her
sooner. "If the Tempter," she said to herself, "has taken the form of my
beloved husband, his power being supreme for evil, the resemblance would
be exact, and no difference, however slight, would exist. If, however,
it is only another man who resembles him, God must have made them with
some slight distinguishing marks."
She then remembered, what she had not thought of before, having been
quite unsuspicious before her uncle's accusation, and nearly out of her
mind between mental and bodily suffering since. She remembered that on
her husband's left shoulder, almost on the neck, there used to be one of
those small, almost imperceptible, but ineffaceable birthmarks. Martin
wore his hair very long, it was difficult to see if the mark were there
or not. One night, while he slept, Bertrande cut away a lock of hair
from the place where this sign ought to be--it was not there!
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. To complete the misfortune, she was
already expecting another infant. She would have killed herself, but her
religion and the love of her children forbade it. Kneeling before her
child's cradle, she entreated pardon from the father of the one for the
father of the other. She would not bring herself to proclaim aloud their
infamy.
"Oh!" she said, "thou whom I loved, thou who art no more, thou knowest
no guilty thought ever entered my mind! When I saw this man, I thought I
beheld thee; when I was happy, I thought I owed it to thee; it was thee
whom I loved in him. Surely thou dost not desire that by a public avowal
I should bring shame and disgrace on these children and on myself."
She rose calm and strengthened: it seemed as if a heavenly inspiration
had marked out her duty. To suffer in silence, such was the course she
adopted,--a life of sacrifice and self-denial which she offered to God
as an expiation for her involuntary sin. But who can understand the
workings of the human heart? This man whom she ought to have loathed,
this man who had made her an innocent partner in his crime, this
unmasked impostor whom she should have beheld only with disgust,
she-loved him! The force of habit, the ascendancy he had obtained over
her, the love he had shown her, a thousand sympathies felt in her inmost
heart, all these had so much influence, that, instead of accusing and
cursing him, she sought to excuse him on the plea of a passion to which,
doubtless, he had yielded when usurping the name and place of another.
She feared punishment for him yet more than disgrace for herself, and
though resolved to no longer allow him the rights purchased by crime,
she yet trembled at the idea of losing his love. It was this above all
which decided her to keep eternal silence about her discovery; one
single word which proved that his imposture was known would raise an
insurmountable barrier between them.
To conceal her trouble entirely was, however, beyond her power; her eyes
frequently showed traces of her secret tears. Martin several times asked
the cause of her sorrow; she tried to smile and excuse herself, only
immediately sinking back into her gloomy thoughts. Martin thought it
mere caprice; he observed her loss of colour, her hollow cheeks, and
concluded that age was impairing her beauty, and became less attentive
to her. His absences became longer and more frequent, and he did not
conceal his impatience and annoyance at being watched; 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 are ruined for ever:"
You will not do it! "entreated the guilty woman, clasping her hands.
"I have only to tell your husband," continued Pierre, "that his wife has
dishonoured him, and to explain the reason of his unnaturally heavy
sleep."
"He will kill me!"
"No doubt: he is jealous, he is an Italian, he will know how to avenge
himself--even as I do."
"But I never did you any harm," Rose cried in despair. "Oh! have pity,
have mercy, and spare me!"
"On one condition."
"What is it?"
"Come with me."
Terrified almost out of her mind, Rose allowed him to lead her away.
Bertrande had just finished her evening prayer, and was preparing for
bed, when she was startled by several knocks at her door. 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.
"Tell the truth here," he continued, "or I go and tell it to your
husband, at your own home!"--"Ah! madame, kill me," said the unhappy
creature, hiding her face; "let me rather die by your hand than his!"
Bertrande, bewildered, did not understand the position in the least, but
she recognised Rose--
"But what is the matter, madame? Why are you here at this hour, pale and
weeping? Why has my uncle dragged you hither? I am to judge you, does he
say? Of what crime are you guilty?"
"Martin might answer that, if he were here," remarked Pierre.
A lightning flash of jealousy shot through Bertrande's soul at these
words, all her former suspicions revived.
"What!" she said, "my husband! What do you mean?"
"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.
"Oh! the wretch," she continued, with increasing passion; "then his
whole life is a lie! He has abused my credulity, he now abuses my love!
He does not know me! He thinks he can trample on me--me, in whose power
are his fortune, his honour, his very life itself!"