All the world said: 

“Bertha is foolishly fond of her husband.”

Sauvresy was sure of it, and he was the first to say, not caring to conceal his joy: 

“My wife adores me.”

Such were man and wife at Valfeuillu when Sauvresy found Tremorel on the banks of the Seine with a pistol in his hand.  Sauvresy missed his dinner that evening for the first time since his marriage, though he had promised to be prompt, and the meal was kept waiting for him.  Bertha might have been anxious about this delay; she was only indignant at what she called inconsiderateness.  She was asking herself how she should punish her husband, when, at ten o’clock at night, the drawing-room door was abruptly thrown open, and Sauvresy stood smiling upon the threshold.

“Bertha,” said he, “I’ve brought you an apparition.”

She scarcely deigned to raise her head.  Sauvresy continued: 

“An apparition whom you know, of whom I have often spoken to you, whom you will like because I love him, and because he is my oldest comrade, my best friend.”

And standing aside, he gently pushed Hector into the room.

“Madame Sauvresy, permit me to present to you Monsieur the Count de Tremorel.”

Bertha rose suddenly, blushing, confused, agitated by an indefinable emotion, as if she saw in reality an apparition.  For the first time in her life she was abashed, and did not dare to raise her large, clear blue eyes.

“Monsieur,” she stammered, “you are welcome.”

She knew Tremorel’s name well.  Sauvresy had often mentioned it, and she had seen it often in the papers, and had heard it in the drawing-rooms of all her friends.  He who bore it seemed to her, after what she had heard a great personage.  He was, according to his reputation, a hero of another age, a social Don Quixote, a terribly fast man of the world.  He was one of those men whose lives astonish common people, whom the well-to-do citizen thinks faithless and lawless, whose extravagant passions overleap the narrow bounds of social prejudice; a man who tyrannizes over others, whom all fear, who fights on the slightest provocation, who scatters gold with a prodigal hand, whose iron health resists the most terrible excesses.  She had often in her miserable reveries tried to imagine what kind of man this Count de Tremorel was.  She awarded him with such qualities as she desired for her fancied hero, with whom she could fly from her husband in search of new adventures.  And now, of a sudden, he appeared before her.

“Give Hector your hand, dear,” said Sauvresy.  She held out her hand, which Tremorel lightly pressed, and his touch seemed to give her an electric shock.

Sauvresy threw himself into an arm-chair.

“You see, Bertha,” said he, “our friend Hector is exhausted with the life he has been leading.  He has been advised to rest, and has come to seek it here, with us.”