"Ah, good God, am I dreaming? It is a frightful dream, and it has made me ill," said she, placing her trembling hands on her head. My heart was beating as though it would break. I was partly conscious of the terrible distress I was causing this sweet woman, as with crushing irony and coarse insolence I destroyed the beautiful picture her love had painted. I shuddered to think of how she must suffer, if this really was her first affection since her husband's death. But my furious distrust worked itself to a higher and higher pitch, at the remembrance of all the odious stories I had heard told of Marguerite, and by my fear of being cheated, being taken for a dupe; so I stifled these gleams of reason, and found no words too strong to express my scorn of what I called the outrageous duplicity of this woman. She soon was completely overcome, and fell to weeping bitterly. She showed no signs of indignation at my words! She could tolerate such insults! Truth would not have been so patient; only falsehood is cowardly. She had given herself to me; why not to others? These were the only thoughts that her silent and tearful grief awoke in me. She wept in silence for a long time. I said no word of consolation. I stood there staring at her with my frowning look of anger towards her and irritation towards myself. Suddenly Marguerite raised up her pale face, looked around as if dazed, rose up, and took two or three steps forward, saying: "No, no, 'tis not a dream; 'tis reality. It must be." Then, as though her strength had all gone from her limbs, she sank on an armchair. Wiping her eyes, she said to me, in a steady voice: "Pardon me this weakness. It is the first time since I told you all that you have ever treated me in such a manner. I believe, though, that you are not so cruel as you seem. It is impossible that you should cause me such suffering, unless you have a very good reason to believe in my treachery. No, that were impossible! So I shall not be angry with you. You have been deceived. You have heard some slanderous story, and you have believed it. Ah, well, dear friend, neither you nor I will throw away our future chances of happiness on some such miserable falsehood. You will therefore confide in me, and tell me what has caused this distrust, of what I am suspected, and what proofs you believe you have of my falseness. You will tell me what is this accusation, and with a single word I will destroy it. Do you hear me? With a single word, for the language of truth is irresistible. Again I tell you, Arthur, I am not angry with you. To treat a woman as you have treated me, when radiant with hope and love she came to offer you-- No, no, we will say no more of that. But to treat a woman with such scorn and severity, you should have some serious proof of her treachery. Say then, tell me, tell me, I beg of you, what have I done?"