"No!" exclaimed the prince, in a burst of violent indignation, "no, the woman who has thrice attempted my life dares not use such language, and threaten me—me, whose forbearance has been so great,—me, who, from a latent feeling of absurd consideration, have always recoiled from the terrible accusation which might compel you to confront a scaffold!"
Madame de Hansfeld looked at her husband with amazement.
"Sir, take care, your brain wanders!"
"I tell you that three times you have attempted to assassinate me, madame!"
"I?"
"You, madame! You remember the pavilion at Trieste; the lone auberge, on the road to Geneva; and then the last attempt that was made but two days ago against my life?"
"I—I? Why, it is impossible that you can say this seriously, sir?" exclaimed Paula. "For what motive should I commit so black a crime? It is horrible! for surely nothing in my conduct could have authorised such terrible suspicions."
"Suspicions, madame? say, rather certainties."
"Certainties? and of what nature—on what proofs do you base them? But I am wrong to discuss with you thus,—it is really derangement."
"Dare you to allude to my derangement! why it was my forbearance that was my sole derangement, madame; I could not isolate myself in distrust—surround myself with precautions without explaining the cause, and that explanation would have ruined you."