Then it was that she felt all was lost, and she must go to her husband for aid, unless she desired that copies of the stolen letters should be sent to him; and in a little boudoir, adjoining Sabine's own room, she opened her heart and told her husband all.

She performed it with all the skill of a woman who, without descending to falsehood, contrives to conceal the truth.

But she could not hide the share that she had taken, both in the death of the late Duke of Champdoce and the disappearance of George de Croisenois.
The Count's brain reeled.

He called up to his memory what Diana had been when he first saw and loved her at Laurebourg: how pure and modest she looked! what virginal candor sat upon her brow! and yet she was even then doing her best to urge on a son to murder his father.
De Mussidan had had hideous doubts concerning the relations of Norbert and Diana, both before and after marriage; but his wife firmly denied this at the moment when she was revealing the other guilty secrets of her past life.

He had believed that Sabine was not his child, and now he had to reproach himself with the indifference he had displayed towards her.
He made no answer to the terrible revelation that was poured into his ears; but when the Countess had concluded, he rose and left the room, stretching out his hands and grasping the walls for support, like a drunken man.
The Count and Countess believed that Sabine had slept through this interview, but they were mistaken, for Sabine had heard all those fatal words--"ruin, dishonor, and despair!" At first she scarcely understood.
Were not these words merely the offspring of her delirium?
She strove to shake it off, but too soon she knew that the whispered words were sad realities, and she lay on her bed quivering with terror.