The scene of his confrontation with Bertrande took a wholly different character. The poor woman, pale, cast down, worn by sorrow, came staggering before the tribunal, in an almost fainting condition. She endeavoured to collect herself, but as soon as she saw the prisoner she hung her head and covered her face with her hands. He approached her and besought her in the gentlest accents not to persist in an accusation which might send him to the scaffold, not thus to avenge any sins he might have committed against her, although he could not reproach himself with any really serious fault. Bertrande started, and murmured in a whisper, “And Rose?” “Ah!” Arnauld exclaimed, astonished at this revelation. His part was instantly taken. Turning to the judges— “Gentlemen,” he said, “my wife is a jealous woman! Ten years ago, when I left her, she had formed these suspicions; they were the cause of my voluntary exile. To-day she again accuses me of, guilty relations with the same person; I neither deny nor acknowledge them, but I affirm that it is the blind passion of jealousy which, aided by my uncle’s suggestions, guided my wife’s hand when she signed this denunciation.” Bertrande remained silent. “Do you dare,” he continued, turning towards her,—“do you dare to swear before God that jealousy did not inspire you with the wish to ruin me?” “And you,” she replied, “dare you swear that I was deceived in my suspicions?” “You see, gentlemen,” exclaimed the prisoner triumphantly, “her jealousy breaks forth before your eyes. Whether I am, or am not, guilty of the sin she attributes to me, is not the question for you to decide. Can you conscientiously admit the testimony of a woman who, after publicly acknowledging me, after receiving me in her house, after living two years in perfect amity with me, has, in a fit of angry vengeance, thought she could give the lie to all her wards and actions? Ah! Bertrande,” he continued, “if it only concerned my life I think I could forgive a madness of which your love is both the cause and the excuse, but you are a mother, think of that! My punishment will recoil on the head of my daughter, who is unhappy enough to have been born since our reunion, and also on our unborn child, which you condemn beforehand to curse the union which gave it being. Think of this, Bertrande, you will have to answer before God for what you are now doing!” The unhappy woman fell on her knees, weeping. “I adjure you,” he continued solemnly, “you, my wife, Bertrande de Rolls, to swear now, here, on the crucifix, that I am an impostor and a cheat.” A crucifix was placed before Bertrande; she made a sign as if to push it away, endeavoured to speak, and feebly exclaimed, “No,” then fell to the ground, and was carried out insensible.