"Yes! and especially when these overwhelming words are to be addressed to a woman you have passionately loved; and when, too, together with material and almost undeniable proofs, there are other moral truths quite to the contrary, and when, moreover, a secret voice, a hidden revelation says to you with irresistible authority, 'No, this woman is not guilty.' Oh, I assure you, it is a hell!—a hell!"
"Now," said Bertha, "I can imagine why you have feigned derangement."
"But," added Pierre Raimond, "a last attempt has left you no doubt."
"None. The crime appeared then to me avowed; or, rather, as my love was exhausted, expended in these struggles and continual anguish, I had this time more courage than I had had before."
"And you now no longer love her?" said Bertha.
"No, for admitting even that I was as mad as I seemed, I deserved, at least, some pity, some interest, and my wife shewed none. Profiting by the solitude in which I lived (for we were then in a large city), she visited and went abroad a great deal, regardless of me. This hardness of heart revolted me. Either my wife was guilty, and my generosity to her ought to have touched her soul, however perverse; or she was innocent, and then the fits of grief which came over me after having vaguely accused her ought to have moved her."
"But why did you never frankly open the question? Why did you never boldly state your reproaches?" inquired Pierre Raimond.
"Only reflect: I should have but to say to her, 'I suspect you, I accuse you of having twice attempted to assassinate me'—might I not be deceived?"
"In truth, the position was a frightful one," said Bertha; "and what was the last occurrence which led to your separation?"
