. It was the least that he could do.

At first, the visitors to Valfeuillu were somewhat astonished at
the constant presence there of a young man of leisure; but they got
accustomed to him. Hector assumed a melancholy expression of
countenance, such as a man ought to have who had undergone
unheard-of misfortunes, and whose life had failed of its promise.
He appeared inoffensive; people said:

"The count has a charming simplicity."

But sometimes, when alone, he had sudden and terrible relapses.
"This life cannot last," thought he; and he was overcome with
childish rage when he contrasted the past with the present. How
could he shake off this dull existence, and rid himself of these
stiffly good people who surrounded him, these friends of Sauvresy?
Where should he take refuge? He was not tempted to return to Paris;
what could he do there? His house had been sold to an old leather
merchant; and he had no money except that which he borrowed of
Sauvresy. Yet Sauvresy, to Hector's mind, was a most uncomfortable,
wearisome, implacable friend; he did not understand half-way
measures in desperate situations.

"Your boat is foundering," he said to Hector; "let us begin by
throwing all that is superfluous into the sea. Let us keep nothing
of the past; that is dead; we will bury it, and nothing shall recall
it. When your situation is relieved, we will see."

The settlement of Hector's affairs was very laborious. Creditors
sprung up at every step, on every side, and the list of them seemed
never to be finished. Some had even come from foreign lands.
Several of them had been already paid, but their receipts could not
be found, and they were clamorous. Others, whose demands had been
refused as exorbitant, threatened to go to law, hoping to frighten
Sauvresy into paying. Sauvresy wearied his friend by his incessant
activity. Every two or three days he went to Paris, and he attended
the sales of the property in Burgundy and Orleans. The count at
last detested and hated him; Sauvresy's happy, cheerful air annoyed
him; jealousy stung him. One thought--that a wretched one--consoled
him a little. "Sauvresy's happiness," said he to himself, "is owing
to his imbecility. He thinks his wife dead in love with him,
whereas she can't bear him."

Bertha had, indeed, permitted Hector to perceive her aversion to
her husband. She no longer studied the emotions of her heart; she
loved Tremorel, and confessed it to herself. In her eyes he reali