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