hundred francs—which he put on the table.
“Take this, from Hector,” said he, “he will not permit you to suffer for anything; but, believe me, you had best let him get married.”
Chapter XVIII
A small, fine, chilly rain had succeeded the morning fog; but Sauvresy did not perceive it. He went across the fields with his head bare, wandering at hazard, without aim or discretion. He talked aloud as he went, stopping ever and anon, then resuming his course. The peasants who met him—they all knew him—turned to look at him after having saluted him, asking themselves whether the master of Valfeuillu had not gone mad. Unhappily he was not mad. Overwhelmed by an unheard-of, unlooked-for catastrophe, his brain had been for a moment paralyzed. But one by one he collected his scattered ideas and acquired the faculty of thinking and of suffering. Each one of his reflections increased his mortal anguish. Yes, Bertha and Hector had deceived, had dishonored him. She, beloved to idolatry; he, his best and oldest friend, a wretch that he had snatched from misery, who owed him everything. And it was in his house, under his own roof, that this infamy had taken place. They had taken advantage of his noble trust, had made a dupe of him. The frightful discovery not only embittered the future, but also the past. He longed to blot out of his life these years passed with Bertha, with whom, but the night before, he had recalled these “happiest years of his life.” The memory of his former happiness filled his soul with disgust. But how had this been done? When? How was it he had seen nothing of it? And now things came into his mind which should have warned him had he not been blind. He recalled certain looks of Bertha, certain tones of voice, which were an avowal. At times, he tried to doubt. There are misfortunes so great that to be believed there must be more than evidence.
“It is not possible!” muttered he.
Seating himself upon a prostrate tree in the midst of Mauprevoir forest, he studied the fatal letter for the tenth time within four hours.
“It proves all,” said he, “and it proves nothing.”
And he read once more.
“Do not go to-morrow to Petit-Bourg—”
Well, had he not again and again, in his idiotic confidence, said to Hector:
“I shall be away to-morrow, stay here and keep Bertha company.”
This sentence, then, had no positive signification. But why add:
“Or rather, return before breakfast.”
This was what betrayed fear, that is, the fault. To go away and return again anon, was to be cautious, to avoid suspicion. Then, why “he,” instead of, “Clement?” This word was striking. “He” —that is, the dear one, or else, the master that one hates. There is no medium—’tis the husband, or the lover. “He,” is never an indifferent person. A husband is lost when his wife, in speaking of him, says, “He.”
But when had Bertha written these few lines? Doubtless some evening after they had retired to their room. He had said 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
