order to sustain her part and to save the honour of her children, she
must treat this man as her husband and appear submissive and repentant;
she must show him entire confidence, as the only means of rehabilitating
him and lulling the vigilance of justice. What the widow of Martin
Guerre must have suffered in this life of effort was a secret between God
and herself, but she looked at her little daughter, she thought of her
fast approaching confinement, and took courage.

One evening, towards nightfall, she was sitting near him in the most
private corner of the garden, with her little child on her knee, whilst
the adventurer, sunk in gloomy thoughts, absently stroked Sanxi's fair
head. Both were silent, for at the bottom of their hearts each knew the
other's thoughts, and, no longer able to talk familiarly, nor daring to
appear estranged, they spent, when alone together, long hours of silent
dreariness.

All at once a loud uproar broke the silence of their retreat; they heard
the exclamations of many persons, cries of surprise mixed with angry
tones, hasty footsteps, then the garden gate was flung violently open,
and old Marguerite appeared, pale, gasping, almost breathless. Bertrande
hastened towards her in astonishment, followed by her husband, but when
near enough to speak she could only answer with inarticulate sounds,
pointing with terror to the courtyard of the house. They looked in this
direction, and saw a man standing at the threshold; they approached him.
He stepped forward, as if to place himself between them. He was tall,
dark; his clothes were torn; he had a wooden leg; his countenance was
stern. He surveyed Bertrande with a gloomy look: she cried aloud, and
fell back insensible; . . . she recognised her real husband!

Arnauld du Thill stood petrified. While Marguerite, distracted herself,