“I assure you, uncle,” he began.
“Enough!” interrupted the banker with an angry gesture, “let me hear no more infamous falsehoods! End this acting, of which I am no longer the dupe.”
“I swear to you—”
“Spare yourself the trouble of denying anything. I know all. I know who pawned my wife’s diamonds. I know who committed the robbery for which an innocent man was arrested and imprisoned.”
Mme. Fauvel, white with terror, fell upon her knees.
At last it had come—the dreadful day had come. Vainly had she added falsehood to falsehood; vainly had she sacrificed herself and others: all was discovered.
She saw that all was lost, and wringing her hands she tearfully moaned:
“Pardon, Andre! I beg you, forgive me!”
At these heart-broken tones, the banker shook like a leaf. This voice brought before him the twenty years of happiness which he had owed to this woman, who had always been the mistress of his heart, whose slightest wish had been his law, and who, by a smile or a frown, could make him the happiest or the most miserable of men. Alas! those days were over now.
Could this wretched woman crouching at his feet be his beloved Valentine, the pure, innocent girl whom he had found secluded in the chateau of La Verberie, who had never loved any other than himself? Could this be the cherished wife whom he had worshipped for so many years?