Bab Bab 18 · 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 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 got up, threw

a gown around him, put on his slippers and went toward the door.

"If anyone sees me, I will feign delirium," said he to himself.

The vestibule lamp was out and he found some difficulty in opening the

door; finally, he descended into the garden. It was intensely cold, and

snow had fallen. The wind shook the limbs of the trees crusted with ice.

The front of the house was sombre. One window only was lighted--that of

Tremorel's room; that was lighted brilliantly, by a lamp and a great

blazing fire. The shadow of a man--of Hector--rested on the muslin

curtains; the shape was distinct. He was near the window, and his

forehead was pressed against the panes. Sauvresy instinctively stopped

to look at his friend, who was so at home in his house, and who, in

exchange for the most brotherly hospitality, had brought dishonor,

despair and death.

Hector made a sudden movement, and turned around as if he was surprised

by an unwonted noise. What was it? Sauvresy only knew too well. Another

shadow appeared on the curtain--that of Bertha. And he had forced

himself to doubt till now! Now proofs had come without his seeking. What

had brought her to that room, at that hour? She seemed to be talking

excitedly. He thought he could hear that full, sonorous voice, now as

clear as metal, now soft and caressing, which had made all the chords of

passion vibrate in him. He once more saw those beautiful eyes which had

reigned so despotically over his heart, and whose expressions he knew so

well. But what was she doing? Doubtless she had gone to ask Hector

something, which he refused her, and she was pleading with him; Sauvresy

saw that she was supplicating, by her motions; he knew the gesture well.

She lifted her clasped hands as high as her forehead, bent her head,

half shut her eyes. What languor had been in her voice when she used to

say:

"Say, dear Clement, you will, will you not?"

And now she was using the same blandishments on another. Sauvresy was

obliged to support himself against a tree. Hector was evidently refusing

what she wished; then she shook her finger menacingly, and tossed her

head angrily, as if she were saying:

"You won't? You shall see, then."

And then she returned to her supplications.

"Ah," thought Sauvresy, "he can resist her prayers; I never had such

courage. He can preserve his coolness, his will, when she looks at him;

I never said no to her; rather, I never waited for her to ask anything

of me; I have passed my life in watching her lightest fancies, to

gratify them. Perhaps that is what has ruined me!"

Hector was obstinate, and Bertha was roused little by little; she must

be angry. She recoiled, holding out her arms, her head thrown back; she

was threatening him. At last he was conquered; he nodded, "Yes." Then

she flung herself upon him, and the two shadows were confounded in a

long embrace.

Sauvresy could not repress an agonized cry, which was lost amid the

noises of the night. He had asked for certainty; here it was. The truth,

indisputable, evident, was clear to him. He had to seek for nothing

more, now, except for the means to punish surely and terribly. Bertha

and Hector were talking amicably. Sauvresy saw that she was about to go

downstairs, and that he could not now go for the letter. He went in

hurriedly, forgetting, in his fear of being discovered, to lock the

garden door. He did not perceive that he had been standing with naked

feet in the snow, till he had returned to his bedroom again; he saw some

flakes on his slippers, and they were damp; quickly he threw them under

the bed, and jumped in between the clothes, and pretended to be asleep.

It was time, for Bertha soon came in. She went to the bed, and thinking

that he had not woke up, returned to her embroidery by the fire.

Tremorel also soon reappeared; he had forgotten to take his paper, and

had come back for it. He seemed uneasy.

"Have you been out to-night, Madame?" asked he, in a low voice.

"No."

"Have all the servants gone to bed?"

"I suppose so; but why do you ask?"

"Since I have been upstairs, somebody has gone out into the garden, and

come back again."

Bertha looked at him with a troubled glance.

"Are you sure of what you say?"

"Certainly. Snow is falling, and whoever went out brought some back on

his shoes. This has melted in the vestibule--"

Mme. Sauvresy seized the lamp, and interrupting Hector, said:

"Come."

Tremorel was right. Here and there on the vestibule pavement were little

puddles.

"Perhaps this water has been here some time," suggested Bertha.

"No. It was not there an hour ago, I could swear. Besides, see, here is

a little snow that has not melted yet."

"It must have been one of the servants."

Hector went to the door and examined it.

"I do not think so," said he. "A servant would have shut the bolts; here

they are, drawn back. Yet I myself shut the door to-night, and

distinctly recollect fastening the bolts."

"It's very strange!"

"And all the more so, look you, because the traces of the water do not

go much beyond the drawing-room door."

They remained silent, and exchanged anxious looks. The same terrible

thought occurred to them both.

"If it were he?"

But why should he have gone into the garden? It could not have been to

spy on them.

They did not think of the window.

"It couldn't have been Clement," said Bertha, at last. "He was asleep

when I went back, and he is in a calm and deep slumber now."

Sauvresy, stretched upon his bed, heard what his enemies were saying. He

cursed his imprudence.

"Suppose," thought he, "they should think of looking at my gown and

slippers!"

Happily this simple idea did not occur to them; after reassuring each

other as well as they were able, they separated; but each heart carried

an anxious doubt. Sauvresy on that night had a terrible crisis in his

illness. Delirium, succeeding this ray of reason, renewed its possession

of his brain. The next morning Dr. R--- pronounced him in more danger

than ever; and sent a despatch to Paris, saying that he would be

detained at Valfeuillu three or four days. The distemper redoubled in

violence; very contradictory symptoms appeared. Each day brought some

new phase of it, which confounded the foresight of the doctors. Every

time that Sauvresy had a moment of reason, the scene at the window

recurred to him, and drove him to madness again.

On that terrible night when he had gone out into the snow, he had not

been mistaken; Bertha was really begging something of Hector. This was

it:

M. Courtois, the mayor, had invited Hector to accompany himself and his

family on an excursion to Fontainebleau on the following day. Hector had

cordially accepted the invitation. Bertha could not bear the idea of his

spending the day in Laurence's company, and begged him not to go. She

told him there were plenty of excuses to relieve him from his promise;

for instance, he might urge that it would not be seemly for him to go

when his friend lay dangerously ill. At first he positively refused to

grant her prayer, but by her supplications and menaces she persuaded

him, and she did not go downstairs until he had sworn that he would

write to M. Courtois that very evening declining the invitation. He kept

his word, but he was disgusted by her tyrannical behavior. He was tired

of forever sacrificing his wishes and his liberty, so that he could plan

nothing, say or promise nothing without consulting this jealous woman,

who would scarcely let him wander out of her sight. The chain became

heavier and heavier to bear, and he began to see that sooner or later it

must be wrenched apart. He had never loved either Bertha or Jenny, or

anyone, probably; but he now loved the mayor's daughter. Her dowry of a

million had at first dazzled him, but little by little he had been

subdued by Laurence's charms of mind and person. He, the dissipated

rake, was seduced by such grave and naive innocence, such frankness and

beauty; he would have married Laurence had she been poor--as Sauvresy

married Bertha. But he feared Bertha too much to brave her suddenly, and

so he waited. The next day after the quarrel about Fontainebleau, he

declared that he was indisposed, attributed it to the want of exercise,

and took to the saddle for several hours every day afterward. But he did

not go far; only to the mayor's. Bertha at first did not perceive

anything suspicious in Tremorel's rides; it reassured her to see him go

off on his horse. After some days, however, she thought she saw in him a

certain feeling of satisfaction concealed under the semblance of

fatigue. She began to have doubts, and these increased every time he

went out; all sorts of conjectures worried her while he was away. Where

did he go? Probably to see Laurence, whom she feared and detested. The

suspicion soon became a certainty with her. One evening Hector appeared,

carrying in his button-hole a flower which Laurence herself had put

there, and which he had forgotten to take out. Bertha took it gently,

examined it, smelt it, and, compelling herself to smile:

"Why," said she, "what a pretty flower!"

"So I thought," answered Hector, carelessly, "though I don't know what

it is called."

"Would it be bold to ask who gave it to you?"

"Not at all. It's a present from our good Plantat."

All Orcival knew that M. Plantat, a monomaniac on flowers, never gave

them away to anyone except Mme. Laurence. Hector's evasion was an

unhappy one, and Bertha was not deceived.

"You promised me, Hector," said she, "not to see Laurence any more, and

to give up this marriage."

He tried to reply.

"Let me speak," she continued, "and explain yourself afterward. You have

broken your word--you are deceiving my confidence! But I tell you, you

shall not marry her!" Then, without awaiting his reply, she overwhelmed

him with reproaches. Why had he come here at all? She was happy in her

home before she knew him. She did not love Sauvresy, it was true; but

she esteemed him, and he was good to her. Ignorant of the happiness of

true love, she did not desire it. But he had come, and she could not

resist his fascination. And now, after having engaged her affection, he

was going to desert her, to marry another! Tremorel listened to her,

perfectly amazed at her audacity. What! She dared to pretend that it was

he who had abused her innocence, when, on the contrary, he had sometimes

been astonished at her persistency! Such was the depth of her

corruption, as it seemed to him, that he wondered whether he were her

first or her twentieth lover. And she had so led him on, and had so

forcibly made him feel the intensity of her will, that he had been fain

still to submit to this despotism. But he had now determined to resist

on the first opportunity; and he resisted.

"Well, yes," said he, frankly, "I did deceive you; I have no

fortune--this marriage will give me one; I shall get married." He went

on to say that he loved Laurence less than ever, but that he coveted her

money more and more every day. "To prove this," he pursued, "if you will

find me to-morrow a girl who has twelve hundred thousand francs instead

of a million, I will marry her in preference to Mademoiselle Courtois."

She had never suspected he had so much courage. She had so long moulded

him like soft wax, and this unexpected conduct disconcerted her. She was

indignant, but at the same time she felt that unhealthy satisfaction

that some women feel, when they meet a master who subdues them; and she

admired Tremorel more than ever before. This time, he had taken a tone

which conquered her; she despised him enough to think him quite capable

of marrying for money. When he had done, she said:

"It's really so, then; you only care for the million of dowry?"

"I've sworn it to you a hundred times."

"Truly now, don't you love Laurence?"

"I have never loved her, and never shall." He thought that he would thus

secure his peace until the wedding-day; once married, he cared not what

would happen. What cared he for Sauvresy? Life is only a succession of

broken friendships. What is a friend, after all? One who can and ought

to serve you. Ability consists in breaking with people, when they cease

to be useful to you.

Bertha reflected.

"Hear me, Hector," said she at last. "I cannot calmly resign myself to

the sacrifice which you demand. Let me have but a few days, to accustom

myself to this dreadful blow. You owe me as much--let Clement get well,

first."

He did not expect to see her so gentle and subdued; who would have

looked for such concessions, so easily obtained? The idea of a snare did

not occur to him. In his delight he betrayed how he rejoiced in his

liberty, which ought to have undeceived Bertha; but she did not perceive

it. He grasped her hand, and cried:

"Ah, you are very good--you really love me."