LITMIR.BIZ

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to her, “I’m going to-morrow to Melun,” and then she had hastily scratched off this note and given it, in a book, to Hector.

      Alas! the edifice of his happiness, which had seemed to him strong enough to defy every tempest of life, had crumbled, and he stood there lost in the midst of its debris. No more happiness, joys, hopes—nothing! All his plans for the future rested on Bertha; her name was mingled in his every dream, she was at once the future and the dream. He had so loved her that she had become something of himself, that he could not imagine himself without her. Bertha lost to him, he saw no direction in life to take, he had no further reason for living. He perceived this so vividly that the idea of suicide came to him. He had his gun, powder and balls; his death would be attributed to a hunting accident, and all would be over.

      Oh, but the guilty ones!

      They would doubtless go on in their infamous comedy—would seem to mourn for him, while really their hearts would bound with joy. No more husband, no more hypocrisies or terrors. His will giving his fortune to Bertha, they would be rich. They would sell everything, and would depart rejoicing to some distant clime. As to his memory, poor man, it would amuse them to think of him as the cheated and despised husband.

      “Never!” cried he, drunk with fury, “never! I must kill myself, but first, I must avenge my dishonor!”

      But he tried in vain to imagine a punishment cruel or terrible enough. What chastisement could expiate the horrible tortures which he endured? He said to himself that, in order to assure his vengeance, he must wait—and he swore that he would wait. He would feign the same stolid confidence, and resigned himself to see and hear everything.

      “My hypocrisy will equal theirs,” thought he.

      Indeed a cautious duplicity was necessary. Bertha was most cunning, and at the first suspicion would fly with her lover. Hector had already—thanks to him—several hundred thousand francs. The idea that they might escape his vengeance gave him energy and a clear head.

      It was only then that he thought of the flight of time, the rain falling in torrents, and the state of his clothes.

      “Bah!” thought he, “I will make up some story to account for myself.”

      He was only a league from Valfeuillu, but he was an hour and a half reaching home. He was broken, exhausted; he felt chilled to the marrow of his bones. But when he entered the gate, he had succeeded in assuming his usual expression, and the gayety which so well hinted his perfect trustfulness. He had been waited for, but in spite of his resolutions, he could not sit at table between this man and woman, his two most cruel enemies. He said that he had taken cold, and would go to bed. Bertha insisted in vain that he should take at least a bowl of broth and a glass of claret.

      “Really,” said he, “I don’t feel well.”

      When he had retired, Bertha said:

      “Did you notice, Hector?”

      “What?”

      “Something unusual has happened to him.”

      “Very likely, after being all day in the rain.”

      “No. His eye had a look I never saw before.”

      “He seemed to be very cheerful, as he always is.”

      “Hector, my husband suspects!”

      “He? Ah, my poor good friend has too much confidence in us to think of being jealous.”

      “You deceive yourself, Hector; he did not embrace me when he came in, and it is the first time since our marriage.”

      Thus, at the very first, he had made a blunder. He knew it well; but it was beyond his power to embrace Bertha at that moment; and he was suffering more than he thought he should. When his wife and his friend ascended to his room, after dinner, they found him shivering under the sheets, red, his forehead burning, his throat dry, and his eyes shining with an unusual brilliancy. A fever soon came on, attended by delirium. A doctor was called, who at first said he would not answer for him. The next day he was worse. From this time both Hector and Bertha conceived for him the most tender devotion. Did they think they should thus in some sort expiate their crime? It is doubtful. More likely they tried to impose on the people about them; everyone was anxious for Sauvresy. They never deserted him for a moment, passing the night by turns near his bed. And it was painful to watch over him; a furious delirium never left him. Several times force had to be used to keep him on the bed; he tried to throw himself out of the window. The third day he had a strange fancy; he did not wish to stay in his chamber. He kept crying out:

      “Carry me away from here, carry me away from here.”

      The doctor advised that he should be humored; so a bed was made up for him in a little room on the ground-floor, overlooking the garden. His wanderings did not betray anything of his suspicions; perhaps the firm will was able even to control the delirium. The fever finally yielded on the ninth day. His breathing became calmer, and he slept. When he awoke, reason had returned. That was a frightful moment. He had, so to speak, to take up the burden of his misery. At first he thought it the memory of a horrid night-mare; but no. He had not dreamed. He recalled the Belle Image, Jenny, the forest, the letter. What had become of the letter? Then, having the vague impression of a serious illness, he asked himself if he had said anything to betray the source of his misery. This anxiety prevented his making the slightest movement, and he opened his eyes softly and cautiously. It was eleven at night, and all the servants had gone to bed. Hector and Bertha alone were keeping watch; he was reading a paper, she was crocheting. Sauvresy saw by their placid countenances that he had betrayed nothing. He moved slightly; Bertha at once arose and came to him.

      “How are you, dear Clement?” asked she, kissing him fondly on the forehead.

      “I am no longer in pain.”

      “You see the result of being careless.”

      “How many days have I been sick?”

      “Eight days.”

      “Why was I brought here?”

      “Because you wished it.”

      Tremorel had approached the bedside.

      “You refused to stay upstairs,” said he, “you were ungovernable till we had you brought here.”

      “But don’t tire yourself,” resumed Hector. “Go to sleep again, and you will be well by to-morrow. And good-night, for I am going to bed now, and shall return and wake your wife at four o’clock.”

      He went out, and Bertha, having given Sauvresy something to drink, returned to her seat.

      “What a friend Tremorel is,” murmured she. Sauvresy did not answer this terribly ironical exclamation. He shut his eyes, pretended to sleep, and thought of the letter. What had he done with it? He remembered that he had carefully folded it and put it in the right-hand pocket of his vest. He must have this letter. It would balk his vengeance, should it fall into his wife’s hands; and this might happen at any moment. It was a miracle that his valet had not put it on the mantel, as he was accustomed to do with the things which he found in his master’s pockets. He was reflecting on some means of getting it, of the possibility of going up to his bedroom, where his vest ought to be, when Bertha got up softly. She came to the bed and whispered gently:

      “Clement, Clement!”

      He did not open his eyes, and she, persuaded that he was sleeping, though very lightly, stole out of the room, holding her breath as she went.

      “Oh, the wretch!” muttered Sauvresy, “she is going to him!”

      At the same time the necessity of recovering the letter occurred to him more vividly than ever.

      “I can get to my room,” thought he, “without being seen, by the garden and back-stairs. She thinks I’m asleep; I shall get back and abed before she returns.”

      Then, without asking himself whether he were not too feeble, or what danger there might be in exposing himself to the cold, he

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