“But, dear,” responded Bertha, “aren’t you afraid that the count will be bored a little here?”

“Why?”

“Valfeuillu is very quiet, and we are but dull country folks.”

Bertha talked for the sake of talking, to break a silence which embarrassed her, to make Tremorel speak, and hear his voice.  As she talked she observed him, and studied the impression she made on him.  Her radiant beauty usually struck those who saw her for the first time with open admiration.  He remained impassible.  She recognized the worn-out rake of title, the fast man who has tried, experienced, exhausted all things, in his coldness and superb indifference.  And because he did not admire her she admired him the more.

“What a difference,” thought she, “between him and that vulgar Sauvresy, who is surprised at everything, whose face shows all that he thinks, whose eye betrays what he is going to say before he opens his mouth.”

Bertha was mistaken.  Hector was not as cold and indifferent as she imagined.  He was simply wearied, utterly exhausted.  He could scarcely sit up after the terrible excitements of the last twenty-four hours.  He soon asked permission to retire.  Sauvresy, when left alone with his wife, told her all that happened, and the events which resulted in Tremorel’s coming to Valfeuillu; but like a true friend omitted everything that would cast ridicule upon his old comrade.

“He’s a big child,” said he, “a foolish fellow, whose brain is weak but we’ll take care of him and cure him.”

Bertha never listened to her husband so attentively before.  She seemed to agree with him, but she really admired Tremorel.  Like Jenny, she was struck with the heroism which could squander a fortune and then commit suicide.

“Ah!” sighed she, “Sauvresy would not have done it!”

No, Sauvresy was quite a different man from the Count de Tremorel.  The next day he declared his intention to adjust his friend’s affairs.  Hector had slept well, having spent the night on an excellent bed, undisturbed by pressing anxieties; and he appeared in the morning sleek and well-dressed, the disorder and desperation of the previous evening having quite disappeared.  He had a nature not deeply impressible by events; twenty-four hours consoled him for the worst catastrophes, and he soon forgot the severest lessons of life.  If Sauvresy had bid him begone, he would not have known where to go; yet he had already resumed the haughty carelessness of the millionnaire, accustomed to bend men and circumstances to his will.  He was once more calm and cold, coolly joking, as if years had passed since that night at the hotel, and as if all the disasters to his fortune had been repaired.  Bertha was amazed at this tranquillity after such great reverses, and thought this childish recklessness force of character.

“Now,” said Sauvresy, “as I’ve become your man of business, give me my instructions, and some valuable hints.  What is, or was, the amount of your fortune?”