"I am not guilty," she said, "but if I seem guilty to the count it is
as if I were so. Perhaps I am! The Holy Virgin conceived without--"

She stopped. During this moment when her thoughts were misty and her
soul floated in a region of fantasy her naivete made her attribute to
that last look with which her lover transfixed her the occult power of
the visitation of the angel to the Mother of her Lord. This
supposition, worthy of the days of innocence to which her reverie had
carried her back, vanished before the memory of a conjugal scene more
odious than death. The poor countess could have no real doubt as to
the legitimacy of the child that stirred in her womb. The night of her
marriage reappeared to her in all the horror if its agony, bringing in
its train other such nights and sadder days.

"Ah! my poor Chaverny!" she cried, weeping, "you so respectful, so
gracious, YOU were always kind to me."

She turned her eyes to her husband as if to persuade herself that that
harsh face contained a promise of mercy, dearly brought. The count was
awake. His yellow eyes, clear as those of a tiger, glittered beneath
their tufted eyebrows and never had his glance been so incisive. The
countess, terrified at having encountered it, slid back under the
great counterpane and was motionless.

"Why are you weeping?" said the count, pulling away the covering which
hid his wife.

That voice, always a terror to her, had a specious softness at this
moment which seemed to her of good augury.