Her voice shook as she spoke. She handed him the key. He removed the padlock and seized the door-handle. But Élisabeth suddenly gripped her husband's arm: "One moment, Paul, one moment! I feel so upset. This is the first time that I shall look on my mother's face . . . and you, my dearest, are beside me. . . . I feel as if I were becoming a little girl again." "Yes," he said, pressing her hand passionately, "a little girl and a grown woman in one." Comforted by the clasp of his hand, she released hers and whispered: "We will go in now, Paul darling." He opened the door and returned to the passage to take a lamp from a bracket on the wall and place it on the table. Meanwhile, Élisabeth had walked across the room and was standing in front of the picture. Her mother's face was in the shadow and she altered the position of the lamp so as to throw the full light upon it. "How beautiful she is, Paul!" He went up to the picture and raised his head. Élisabeth sank to her knees on the _prie-Dieu_. But presently, hearing Paul turn round, she looked up at him and was stupefied by what she saw. He was standing motionless, livid in the face, his eyes wide open, as though gazing at the most frightful vision. "Paul," she cried, "what's the matter?" He began to make for the door, stepping backwards, unable to take his eyes from the portrait of Hermine d'Andeville. He was staggering like a drunken man; and his arms beat the air around him. "That . . . that . . ." he stammered, hoarsely. "Paul," Élisabeth entreated, "what is it? What are you trying to say?" "That . . . that is the woman who killed my father!" CHAPTER III THE CALL TO ARMS The hideous accusation was followed by an awful silence. Élisabeth was now standing in front of her husband, striving to understand his words, which had not yet acquired their real meaning for her, but which hurt her as though she had been stabbed to the heart. She moved towards him and, with her eyes in his, spoke in a voice so low that he could hardly hear: "You surely can't mean what you said, Paul? The thing is too monstrous!" He replied in the same tone: "Yes, it is a monstrous thing. I don't believe it myself yet. I refuse to believe it." "Then--it's a mistake, isn't it?--Confess it, you've made a mistake." She implored him with all the distress that filled her being, as though she were hoping to make him yield. He fixed his eyes again on the accursed portrait, over his wife's shoulder, and shivered from head to foot: "Oh, it is she!" he declared, clenching his fists. "It is she--I recognize her--it is the woman who killed my----" A shock of protest ran through her body; and, beating her breast, she cried: "My mother! My mother a murderess! My mother, whom my father used to worship and went on worshiping! My mother, who used to hold me on her knee and kiss me!--I have forgotten everything about her except that, her kisses and her caresses! And you tell me that she is a murderess!"