"So you do recognize me?" said Arnauld, persisting in his question. "You do realize now that I am not that intriguing scoundrel who had the assurance to call himself your husband no longer ago than last week, but that I am the real, legitimate Martin-Guerre, whom you have not seen before for many years? Look at me. Do you recognize me now, and acknowledge me as your first and only husband?" "To be sure I do," said Bertrande. "By what marks do you recognize me?" asked Arnauld. "Alas!" said Bertrande, frankly, "only by the outward appearance of your person, I confess. Were you beside Arnauld du Thill and dressed like him, the resemblance is so exact that very likely I could not tell you apart even now. I know you for my true husband because I was told that I was to be taken to him, because you occupy this cell, and not Arnauld's, and because you receive me with the calm severity which I deserve; while Arnauld would be trying still to abuse me and deceive me--" "Wretched Arnauld!" cried Arnauld himself, harshly. "And you, weak and credulous woman--" "Don't spare me!" was Bertrande's rejoinder. "I much prefer your reproaches to your silence. When you have said to me all that you have at heart--for I know how kind and indulgent you are--you will soften toward me and forgive me!" "Very well!" said Arnauld, in a somewhat milder tone. "Don't be downhearted, Bertrande; we will see." "Ah!" exclaimed Bertrande, "what did I say? Yes, you are, indeed, my own dear Martin-Guerre!" She threw herself at his feet, and bathed his hands with her honest tears,--for she really believed she was talking with her husband; and Arnauld du Thill, who was observing her distrustfully, could find no excuse for the least suspicion. Her expressions of joy and penitence were not ambiguous. "Very good!" Arnauld muttered to himself; "you shall pay for all this some day, ingrate!" Meanwhile he seemed to give way to an irresistible impulse of affection. "I am weak, and I feel that I am yielding," said he, pretending to wipe away a tear which was not there; and, as if in spite of himself, he breathed a kiss upon the lowly head of the fair penitent. "What ecstasy!" cried Bertrande; "he has almost forgiven me!" At this moment the door opened, and the jailer reappeared. "Humph! Made it up, have you?" said he, testily, as his eye fell upon the sentimental tableau presented by the happy pair. "I was sure of it,--you're such a milksop, Martin!" "What's that? Do you blame him for his kind heart?" said Bertrande. "Ha, ha! Come, come!" said Arnauld, laughing in the most fatherly way. "Well, as I said before, it's his business," replied the unmoved jailer; "and it's my business now to carry out my orders. The time has expired, and you cannot stay a minute longer, my weeping beauty." "What! must I leave him already?" asked Bertrande. "Yes. You will have time enough to see him to-morrow and all the rest of your days," was the reply.