Notwithstanding the improbability of the explanation, he did not hesitate.  He murmured a few soft words of reproach and placed her in the hands of her maid, who removed her wet garments.

During that time he called the sergent-de-ville, who remained in the vestibule, and closely interrogated him.  On learning in what street and what precise spot he had found the Countess, her husband knew at once and fully the whole truth.

He went directly to his wife.  She had retired and was trembling in every limb.  One of her hands was resting outside the coverlet.  He rushed to take it, but she withdrew it gently, with sad and resolute dignity.

The simple gesture told him they were separated forever.

By a tacit agreement, arranged by her and as tacitly accepted by him,
Madame de Camors became virtually a widow.

He remained for some seconds immovable, his expression lost in the shadow of the bed-hangings; then walked slowly across the chamber.  The idea of lying to defend himself never occurred to him.

His line of conduct was already arranged—­calmly, methodically.  But two blue circles had sunk around his eyes, and his face wore a waxen pallor.  His hands, joined behind his back, were clenched; and the ring he wore sparkled with their tremulous movement.  At intervals he seemed to cease breathing, as he listened to the chattering teeth of his young wife.

After half an hour he approached the bed.

“Marie!” he said in a low voice.  She turned upon him her eyes gleaming with fever.

“Marie, I am ignorant of what you know, and I shall not ask,” he continued.  “I have been very criminal toward you, but perhaps less so than you think.  Terrible circumstances bound me with iron bands.  Fate ruled me!  But I seek no palliation.  Judge me as severely as you wish; but I beg of you to calm yourself—­preserve yourself!  You spoke to me this morning of your presentiments—­of your maternal hopes.  Attach yourself to those thoughts, and you will always be mistress of your life.  As for myself, I shall be whatever you will—­a stranger or a friend.  But now I feel that my presence makes you ill.  I would leave you for the present, but not alone.  Do you wish Madame Jaubert to come to you tonight?”

“Yes!” she murmured, faintly.

“I shall go for her; but it is not necessary to tell you that there are confidences one must reserve even from one’s dearest friends.”

“Except a mother?” She murmured the question with a supplicating agony very painful to see.

He grew still paler.  After an instant, “Except a mother!” he said.  “Be it so!”

She turned her face and buried it in the pillow.

“Your mother arrives to-morrow, does she not?” She made an affirmative motion of her head.  “You can make your arrangements with her.  I shall accept everything.”

“Thank you,” she replied, feebly.

He left the room and went to find Madame Jaubert, whom he awakened, and briefly told her that his wife had been seized with a severe nervous attack—­the effect of a chill.  The amiable little woman ran hastily to her friend and spent the night with her.