It was midnight before the husband and wife were alone and able to give vent to their feelings.Bertrande still felt half stupefied;she could not believe her own eyes and ears, nor realise that she saw again in her marriage chamber her husband of eight years ago, him for whom she had wept; whose death she had deplored only a few hours previously.In the sudden shock caused by so much joy succeeding so much grief, she had not been able to express what she felt; her confused ideas were difficult to explain, and she seemed deprived of the powers of speech and reflection.When she became calmer and more capable of analysing her feelings, she was astonished not to feel towards her husband the same affection which had moved her so strongly a few hours before.It was certainly himself, those were the same features, that was the man to whom she had willingly given her hand, her heart, herself, and yet now that she saw him again a cold barrier of shyness, of modesty, seemed to have risen between them.His first kiss, even, had not made her happy: she blushed and felt saddened--a curious result of the long absence! She could not define the changes wrought by years in his appearance: his countenance seemed harsher, yet the lines of his face, his outer man, his whole personality, did not seem altered, but his soul had changed its nature, a different mind looked forth from those eyes.Bertrande knew him for her husband, and yet she hesitated.Even so Penelope, on the, return of Ulysses, required a certain proof to confirm the evidence of her eyes, and her long absent husband had to remind her of secrets known only to herself.
Martin, however, as if he understood Bertrande's feeling and divined some secret mistrust, used the most tender and affectionate phrases, and even the very pet names which close intimacy had formerly endeared to them.
"My queen," he said, "my beautiful dove, can you not lay aside your resentment? Is it still so strong that no submission can soften it?
Cannot my repentance find grace in your eyes? My Bertrande, my Bertha, my Bertranilla, as I used to call you."She tried to smile, but stopped short, puzzled; the names were the very same, but the inflexion of voice quite different.
Martin took her hands in his."What pretty hands! Do you still wear my ring? Yes, here it is, and with it the sapphire ring I gave you the day Sanxi was born."Bertrande did not answer, but she took the child and placed him in his father's arms.
Martin showered caresses on his son, and spoke of the time when he carried him as a baby in the garden, lifting him up to the fruit trees, so that he could reach and try to bite the fruit.He recollected one day when the poor child got his leg terribly torn by thorns, and convinced himself, not without emotion, that the scar could still be seen.
Bertrande was touched by this display of affectionate recollections, and felt vexed at her own coldness.She came up to Martin and laid her hand in his.He said gently--"My departure caused you great grief: I now repent what I did.But Iwas young, I was proud, and your reproaches were unjust.""Ah," said she, "you have not forgotten the cause of our quarrel?""It was little Rose, our neighbour, whom you said I was making love to, because you found us together at the spring in the little wood.
I explained that we met only by chance,--besides, she was only a child,--but you would not listen, and in your anger--""Ah! forgive me, Martin, forgive me!" she interrupted, in confusion.
"In your blind anger you took up, I know not what, something which lay handy, and flung it at me.And here is the mark," he continued, smiling, " this scar, which is still to be seen.""Oh, Martin! "Bertrande exclaimed, "can you ever forgive me?""As you see," Martin replied, kissing her tenderly.
Much moved, Bertrande swept aside his hair, and looked at the scar visible on his forehead.
"But," she said, with surprise not free from alarm, "this scar seems to me like a fresh one.""Ah!" Martin explained, with a, little embarrassment; "it reopened lately.But I had thought no more about it.Let us forget it, Bertrande; I should not like a recollection which might make you think yourself less dear to me than you once were."And he drew her upon his knee.She repelled him gently.
"Send the child to bed," said Martin."Tomorrow shall be for him;to-night you have the first place, Bertrande, you only."The boy kissed his father and went.
Bertrande came and knelt beside her husband, regarding him attentively with an uneasy smile, which did not appear to please him by any means.
"What is the matter?" said he."Why do you examine me thus?""I do not know--forgive me, oh! forgive me!...But the happiness of seeing you was so great and unexpected, it is all like a dream.I must try to become accustomed to it; give me some time to collect myself; let me spend this night in prayer.I ought to offer my joy and my thanksgiving to Almighty God--""Not so," interrupted her husband, passing his arms round her neck and stroking her beautiful hair."No; 'tis to me that your first thoughts are due.After so much weariness, my rest is in again beholding you, and my happiness after so many trials will be found in your love.That hope has supported me throughout, and I long to be assured that it is no illusion." So saying, he endeavoured to raise her.
"Oh," she murmured, "I pray you leave me."
"What!" he exclaimed angrily." Bertrande, is this your love? Is it thus you keep faith with me? You will make me doubt the evidence of your friends; you will make me think that indifference, or even another love----""You insult me," said Bertrande, rising to her feet.
He caught her in his arms."No, no; I think nothing which could wound you, my queen, and I believe your fidelity, even as before, you know, on that first journey, when you wrote me these loving letters which I have treasured ever since.Here they are." And he drew forth some papers, on which Bertrande recognised her own handwriting.
