et the things that
you told me, but from that day, I troubled myself no more about you. I
did not kill you, because then I should have had no means on earth of
ever discovering which of our ... of your children is not mine. I have
waited, but I have suffered more than you would believe, for I can no
longer venture to love them, except, perhaps, the two eldest; I no
longer venture to look at them, to call them to me, to kiss them; I
cannot take them onto my knee without asking myself: 'Can it be this
one?' I have been correct in my behavior towards you for six years, and
even kind and complaisant; tell me the truth, and I swear that I will do
nothing unkind."

He thought, in spite of the darkness of the carriage, that he could
perceive that she was moved, and feeling certain that she was going to
speak at last, he said: "I beg you, I beseech you to tell me...." "I
have been more guilty than you think, perhaps," she replied; "but I
could no longer endure that life of continual pregnancy, and I had only
one means of driving you from my bed. I lied before God, and I lied,
with my hand raised to my children's head, for I have never wronged
you."

He seized her arm in the darkness, and squeezing it as he had done on
that terrible day of their drive in the Bois de Boulogne, he stammered:
"Is that true?" "It is true." But he, in terrible grief, said with a
groan: "I shall have fresh doubts that will never end! When did you lie,
the last time or now? How am I to believe you at present? How can one
believe a woman after that? I shall never again know what I am to think.
I would rather you had said to me: 'It is Jacques, or, it is Jeanne.'"

The carriage drove them into the courtyard of their mansion, and when it
had drawn up in front of the steps, the Count got down first, as usual,
and offered his wife his arm, to help her up. And then, as soon as they
had reached the first floor, he said: "Can I speak to you for a few
moments longer?" And she replied: "I am quite willing."

They went into a small drawing-room, while a footman in some surprise,
lit the wax candles. As soon as he had left the room and they were
alone, he continued: "How am I to know the truth? I have begged you a
thousand times to speak, but you have remained dumb, impenetrable,
inflexible, inexorable, and now to-day, you tell me that you have been
lying. For six years you have actually allowed me to believe such a
thing! No, you are lying now; I do not know