It was possible that his imagination had, unaided, invented this dreadful doubt--his imagination, which he never controlled, which constantly evaded his will and went off, unfettered, audacious, adventurous, and stealthy, into the infinite world of ideas, bringing back now and then some which were shameless and repulsive, and which it buried in him, in the depths of his soul, in its most fathomless recesses, like something stolen.

His heart, most certainly, his own heart had secrets from him; and had not that wounded heart discerned in this atrocious doubt a means of depriving his brother of the inheritance of which he was jealous?
He suspected himself now, cross-examining all the mysteries of his mind as bigots search their consciences.
Mme.

Rosemilly, though her intelligence was limited, had certainly a woman's instinct, scent, and subtle intuitions.

And this notion had never entered her head, since she had, with perfect simplicity, drunk to the blessed memory of the deceased Marechal.

She was not the woman to have done this if she had had the faintest suspicion.