“Wait—­here it is—­no.  It’s odd—­I am sure I’ve got it though—­ I had it a minute ago—­”

And, suddenly, with a rapid gesture, she put the letter, rolled into a ball, into her mouth, and tried to swallow it.  But Sauvresy as quickly grasped her by the throat, and she was forced to disgorge it.

He had the letter at last.  His hands trembled so that he could scarcely open it.

It was, indeed, Bertha’s writing.

Sauvresy tottered with a horrible sensation of dizziness; he could not see clearly; there was a red cloud before his eyes; his legs gave way under him, he staggered, and his hands stretched out for a support.  Jenny, somewhat recovered, hastened to give him help; but her touch made him shudder, and he repulsed her.  What had happened he could not tell.  Ah, he wished to read this letter and could not.  He went to the table, turned out and drank two large glasses of water one after another.  The cold draught restored him, his blood resumed its natural course, and he could see.  The note was short, and this was what he read: 

“Don’t go to-morrow to Petit-Bourg; or rather, return before breakfast.  He has just told me that he must go to Melun, and that he should return late.  A whole day!”

“He”—­that was himself.  This other lover of Hector’s was Bertha, his wife.  For a moment he saw nothing but that; all thought was crushed within him.  His temples beat furiously, he heard a dreadful buzzing in his ears, it seemed to him as if the earth were about to swallow him up.  He fell into a chair; from purple he became ashy white.  Great tears trickled down his cheeks.

Jenny understood the miserable meanness of her conduct when she saw this great grief, this silent despair, this man with a broken heart.  Was she not the cause of all?  She had guessed who the writer of the note was.  She thought when she asked Sauvresy to come to her, that she could tell him all, and thus avenge herself at once upon Hector and her rival.  Then, on seeing this man refusing to comprehend her hints, she had been full of pity for him.  She had said to herself that he would be the one who would be most cruelly punished; and then she had recoiled—­but too late—­and he had snatched the secret from her.

She approached Sauvresy and tried to take his hands; he still repulsed her.

“Let me alone,” said he.

“Pardon me, sir—­I am a wretch, I am horrified at myself.”

He rose suddenly; he was gradually coming to himself.

“What do you want?”

“That letter—­I guessed—­”

He burst into a loud, bitter, discordant laugh, and replied: 

“God forgive me!  Why, my dear, did you dare to suspect my wife?”

While Jenny was muttering confused excuses, he drew out his pocket-book and took from it all the money it contained—­some seven or eight hundred francs—­which he put on the table.