The poor countess could have no real doubt as to the legitimacy of the child that stirred in her womb.

The night of her marriage reappeared to her in all the horror if its agony, bringing in its train other such nights and sadder days.
"Ah! my poor Chaverny!" she cried, weeping, "you so respectful, so gracious, YOU were always kind to me." She turned her eyes to her husband as if to persuade herself that that harsh face contained a promise of mercy, dearly brought.

The count was awake.

His yellow eyes, clear as those of a tiger, glittered beneath their tufted eyebrows and never had his glance been so incisive.

The countess, terrified at having encountered it, slid back under the great counterpane and was motionless.
"Why are you weeping ?" said the count, pulling away the covering which hid his wife.
That voice, always a terror to her, had a specious softness at this moment which seemed to her of good augury.
"I suffer much," she answered.
"Well, my pretty one, it is no crime to suffer; why did you tremble when I looked at you?
Alas! what must I do to be loved ?" The wrinkles of his forehead between the eyebrows deepened.