thought Bertha, as she returned home by the river-road; and surprised, almost terrified by her boldness, she asked herself whether she ought to rejoice or mourn over this meeting.  What would be its result?  Hector cautiously followed her at a little distance.  He was greatly astonished.  His vanity, always on the watch, had already apprised him of what was passing in Bertha’s heart, but, though modesty was no fault of his, he was far from guessing that she was so much enamoured of him as to take such a step.

“She loves me!” he repeated to himself, as he went along.  “She loves me!”

He did not yet know what to do.  Should he fly?  Should he still appear the same in his conduct toward her, pretending not to have seen her?  He ought to fly that very evening, without hesitation, without turning his head; to fly as if the house were about to tumble about his head.  This was his first thought.  It was quickly stifled under the explosion of the base passions which fermented in him.  Ah, Sauvresy had saved him when he was dying!  Sauvresy, after saving him, had welcomed him, opened to him his heart, purse, house; at this very moment he was making untiring efforts to restore his fortunes.  Men like Tremorel can only receive such services as outrages.  Had not his sojourn at Valfeuillu been a continual suffering?  Was not his self-conceit tortured from morning till night?  He might count the days by their humiliations.  What!  Must he always submit to—­if he was not grateful for—­the superiority of a man whom he had always been wont to treat as his inferior?

“Besides,” thought he, judging his friend by himself, “he only acts thus from pride and ostentation.  What am I at his house, but a living witness of his generosity and devotion?  He seems to live for me—­it’s Tremorel here and Tremorel there!  He triumphs over my misfortunes, and makes his conduct a glory and title to the public admiration.”

He could not forgive his friend for being so rich, so happy, so highly respected, for having known how to regulate his life, while he had exhausted his own fortune at thirty.  And should he not seize so good an opportunity to avenge himself for the favors which overwhelmed him?

“Have I run after his wife?” said he to himself, trying to impose silence on his conscience.  “She comes to me of her own will, herself, without the least temptation from me.  I should be a fool if I repelled her.”

Conceit has irresistible arguments.  Hector, when he entered the house, had made up his mind.  He did not fly.  Yet he had the excuse neither of passion nor of temptation; he did not love her, and his infamy was deliberate, coldly premeditated.  Between her and him a chain more solid than mutual attraction was riveted; their common hatred of Sauvresy.  They owed too much to him.  His hand had held both from degradation.