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Martin Guerre – Celebrated Crimes
by
“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. “Yes,” he continued, “I have read and–re-read them…. See, you spoke then of your love and the sorrows of absence. But why all this trouble and terror? You tremble, just as you did when I first received you from your father’s hands…. It was here, in this very room…. You begged me then to leave you, to let you spend the night in prayer; but I insisted, do you remember? and pressed you to my heart, as I do now.”
“Oh,” she murmured weakly, “have pity!”
But the words were intercepted by a kiss, and the remembrance of the past, the happiness of the present, resumed their sway; the imaginary terrors were forgotten, and the curtains closed around the marriage-bed.
The next day was a festival in the village of Artigues. Martin returned the visits of all who had come to welcome him the previous night, and there were endless recognitions and embracings. The young men remembered that he had played with them when they were little; the old men, that they had been at his wedding when he was only twelve.
The women remembered having envied Bertrande, especially the pretty Rose, daughter of Marcel, the apothecary, she who had roused the demon of jealousy in, the poor wife’s heart. And Rose knew quite well that the jealousy was not without some cause; for Martin had indeed shown her attention, and she was unable to see him again without emotion. She was now the wife of a rich peasant, ugly, old, and jealous, and she compared, sighing, her unhappy lot with that of her more fortunate neighbour. Martin’s sisters detained him amongst them, and spoke of their childish games and of their parents, both dead in Biscay. Martin dried the tears which flowed at these recollections of the past, and turned their thoughts to rejoicing. Banquets were given and received. Martin invited all his relations and former friends; an easy gaiety prevailed. It was remarked that the hero of the feast refrained from wine; he was thereupon reproached, but answered that on account of the wounds he had received he was obliged to avoid excess. The excuse was admitted, the result of Martin’s precautions being that he kept a clear head on his shoulders, while all the rest had their tongues loosed by drunkenness.