"An insult coming from lips like yours has no effect," he said, "you shall soon have the confirmation of what I assert; but enough of this subject; I wished to have you in my power in order that you may be witness of what I have to say to this lady. Come," he added, addressing Doña Clara; "come, madam, and forgive me for not wishing to see you except in the presence of the man you call your husband."
On hearing the appeal, Doña Clara rose trembling, and tottered forward.
There was a momentary silence; Montbarts, with his head hanging on his chest, seemed plunged in bitter thoughts; at length he drew himself up, passed his hand over his forehead as if to drive away the mist that obscured his reason, turned to Doña Clara, and said to her in a gentle voice,—
"You desired to see me, madam, in order to remind me of a time forever past, and to confide a secret to me. This secret I have no right to know; the Count de Barmont is dead, dead to everybody, to you before all, who did not blush to renounce him, and though you belonged to him by legitimate ties, and before all by the more legitimate one of a powerful love, cowardly permitted yourself to be chained to another; this is a crime, madam, which no forgiveness can efface, either in the present or past."
"Pity me, sir," the unhappy lady said, as she writhed beneath this curse and burst into tears; "pity me, in the name of my remorse and my sufferings!"
"What are you doing, madam?" the Count exclaimed, "Rise at once."
"Silence," Montbarts said in a harsh voice, "Allow this culprit to be bowed beneath the weight of her repentance; you, who have been her executioner, have less right than anyone else to protect her."
Don Sancho had rushed toward his sister and, roughly repulsing the Count, raised her in his arms. Montbarts continued.
"I will only add one word, madam; the Count de Barmont had a child; on the day when that child comes to ask his mother's pardon of me, I will grant it—perhaps," he added in a faint voice.
"Oh!" the young lady exclaimed with a feverish energy, as she seized the hand which the filibuster had not the courage to withdraw from her, "Oh sir! You are great and noble, this promise restores me all my hope and courage; oh! I swear to you, sir, I will find my child again."