in had been for a moment paralyzed. But one by one he collected
his scattered ideas and acquired the faculty of thinking and of
suffering. Each one of his reflections increased his mortal anguish.
Yes, Bertha and Hector had deceived, had dishonored him. She,
beloved to idolatry; he, his best and oldest friend, a wretch that
he had snatched from misery, who owed him everything. And it was
in his house, under his own roof, that this infamy had taken place.
They had taken advantage of his noble trust, had made a dupe of him.
The frightful discovery not only embittered the future, but also
the past. He longed to blot out of his life these years passed with
Bertha, with whom, but the night before, he had recalled these
"happiest years of his life." The memory of his former happiness
filled his soul with disgust. But how had this been done? When?
How was it he had seen nothing of it? And now things came into
his mind which should have warned him had he not been blind. He
recalled certain looks of Bertha, certain tones of voice, which were
an avowal. At times, he tried to doubt. There are misfortunes so
great that to be believed there must be more than evidence.

"It is not possible!" muttered he.

Seating himself upon a prostrate tree in the midst of Mauprevoir
forest, he studied the fatal letter for the tenth time within four
hours.

"It proves all," said he, "and it proves nothing."

And he read once more.

"Do not go to-morrow to Petit-Bourg--"

Well, had he not again and again, in his idiotic confidence, said
to Hector:

"I shall be away to-morrow, stay here and keep Bertha company."

This sentence, then, had no positive signification. But why add:

"Or rather, return before breakfast."

This was what betrayed fear, that is, the fault. To go away and
return again anon, was to be cautious, to avoid suspicion. Then,
why "he," instead of, "Clement?" This word was striking. "He"
--that is, the dear one, or else, the master that one hates. There
is no medium--'tis the husband, or the lover. "He," is never an
indifferent person. A husband is lost when his wife, in speaking
of him, says, "He."

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 de