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