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.