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I felt some relief, however, in the hope that Bertollon only wished to test my friendship. For, if he really had acted so atrociously, how could he venture to let another glass of wine pass his lips, since every drop threatened to disclose his secret; how could he so shamelessly reveal himself in all his atrocity, either to a villain or to an honourable man?

But I hoped in vain to deceive myself; his expressions respecting me and his unfortunate wife, and his former willingness to resign her to me, made all but too true. His early plans were now becoming clearly developed in the misty distance. I recollected many expressions which he had used, and that he himself favoured my intercourse with Madame Bertollon, and refused to become suspicious of our intimacy. And when he spoke of the vehemence and reserve of her disposition, he probably then conceived designs of charging her with this crime.

The morning had dawned, and I was still undecided as to what I should do. Innocence must be saved, but her safety must be the ruin of my benefactor, my first and only friend; only an excess of love for me had elicited the horrible secret. Should I go and betray him? He was the author of my happiness; should the hand which had received innumerable benefits from him, plunge him ungratefully into an unfathomable abyss? Should I lose him whom I still loved, the only one who loved me? “Unhappy series of events,” I sighed, “must I become the instrument of fettering innocence, or of sacrificing the life of my benefactor?”

But my conscience cried, “Be just before you wish to be kind! Whatever consequences may attend the actions which we perform, from duty,–nay, even did they involve the destruction of ourselves–nothing should hinder us when virtue is at stake. Return to your poverty, go solitary and cheerfully through life, only save your peace of mind and carry with you a quiet conscience. You did what justice required. There is a God, be pure as he is.”

I wrote to the police inspector of the district to come immediately to me on most urgent business. On his arrival I repaired to Bertollon’s room, while the officer remained without.

Bertollon was still asleep; I trembled, love and compassion overcame me, I exclaimed, “Bertollon,” and kissed him.

He awoke, and I suffered him to wake completely during some indifferent conversation.

“Tell me,” I said, at length, “is your wife really innocent? Had you poisoned the essence yourself?”

He looked at me with a penetrating glance, saying, “Be silent.”

“But, Bertollon, this answer is but a confirmation of last night’s statement. I conjure you, my friend, remove my doubts. Have you done all you said, or did you only wish to—-“

Bertollon rose, and said, “Colas! I trust you are discreet.”

“But speak, Bertollon, pray speak! the court will pass sentence on your wife to-day, let not innocence perish!”

“Are you mad, Colas? Would you become the betrayer of your friend?”

While stammering this he appeared in violent emotion. He turned pale, and his lips became livid; his eyes stared vacantly. All proved too certainly that he had confessed the previous night, in the excitement of wine, circumstances at which he was now terrified, seeing they were no longer safe in my keeping.

I put my hand on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “Bertollon! dress, take money enough with you, and flee. I will manage the rest.”

With a look threatening death, he asked, “Why?”

“Fly, I say, while there is time.”

“Why?” he replied, “Do you intend—- or have you, perhaps, already—-“

“By all that is dear and sacred to you, fly!”

While I whispered these last words to him, he suddenly jumped up, looked about the room as if searching for something, which made me think he had forgotten in his consternation that his clothes lay near the bed. While I stooped to give them to him he fired a pistol at me, and the blood gushed down over my chest.