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.