To an accusation so abrupt, so brutal, and so utterly incomprehensible, Bertha found it impossible to frame any reply: but, clasping her hands, she raised her eyes to heaven.
"All those tragedy airs are no answers to my question," cried M. de Brévannes, more and more excited; "and I ask you again, madam, why that light burned in the window directly facing yours; and wherefore that man gazed so attentively over here?"
"How is it possible I can know?" cried Bertha.
"Ah, madam, this is not replying, but meanly equivocating."
"But what other answer can I give?"
"Have a care! have a care!" exclaimed M. de Brévannes, almost foaming with rage, "do not imagine me fool enough to be duped by your hypocrisy. I have seen what I state with my own eyes. I am not blind, whatever you may think. I insist upon knowing who lives opposite to us?"
"For Heaven's sake, Charles, how should I know? We have only been here since yesterday morning——"
Interrupting his wife with increased fury, and violently striking his forehead, M. de Brévannes exclaimed,—
"I have it! Now, I remember, a post-chaise arrived almost at the same time we did, and stopped before the opposite house. We are followed—perhaps, even from Lorraine. Oh, I am sure—quite, quite sure, some disgraceful mystery is attached to all these circumstances; but depend upon it, wretched creature! that I will discover it, and drag the infamous participators to the shame and ignominy they deserve."
So much brutality and insult, expressed in a tone and manner so undeserved, stung Bertha to the quick. Spite of her quietness and habitual resignation, her self-pride, her delicacy, seemed outraged; and, with a firm and dignified manner, she said to her husband,—