"Oh, yes! indeed, I do," replied Bertrande; "but I blame myself for having waited for the judgment and decree of the court."
"So you do recognize me?" said Arnauld, persisting in his question. "You do realize now that I am not that intriguing scoundrel who had the assurance to call himself your husband no longer ago than last week, but that I am the real, legitimate Martin-Guerre, whom you have not seen before for many years? Look at me. Do you recognize me now, and acknowledge me as your first and only husband?"
"To be sure I do," said Bertrande.
"By what marks do you recognize me?" asked Arnauld.
"Alas!" said Bertrande, frankly, "only by the outward appearance of your person, I confess. Were you beside Arnauld du Thill and dressed like him, the resemblance is so exact that very likely I could not tell you apart even now. I know you for my true husband because I was told that I was to be taken to him, because you occupy this cell, and not Arnauld's, and because you receive me with the calm severity which I deserve; while Arnauld would be trying still to abuse me and deceive me—"
"Wretched Arnauld!" cried Arnauld himself, harshly. "And you, weak and credulous woman—"
"Don't spare me!" was Bertrande's rejoinder. "I much prefer your reproaches to your silence. When you have said to me all that you have at heart—for I know how kind and indulgent you are—you will soften toward me and forgive me!"
"Very well!" said Arnauld, in a somewhat milder tone. "Don't be downhearted, Bertrande; we will see."
"Ah!" exclaimed Bertrande, "what did I say? Yes, you are, indeed, my own dear Martin-Guerre!"
She threw herself at his feet, and bathed his hands with her honest tears,—for she really believed she was talking with her husband; and Arnauld du Thill, who was observing her distrustfully, could find no excuse for the least suspicion. Her expressions of joy and penitence were not ambiguous.