fy every tempest of life, had crumbled, and he stood
there lost in the midst of its debris. No more happiness, joys,
hopes--nothing! All his plans for the future rested on Bertha; her
name was mingled in his every dream, she was at once the future and
the dream. He had so loved her that she had become something of
himself, that he could not imagine himself without her. Bertha
lost to him, he saw no direction in life to take, he had no further
reason for living. He perceived this so vividly that the idea of
suicide came to him. He had his gun, powder and balls; his death
would be attributed to a hunting accident, and all would be over.

Oh, but the guilty ones!

They would doubtless go on in their infamous comedy--would seem
to mourn for him, while really their hearts would bound with joy.
No more husband, no more hypocrisies or terrors. His will giving
his fortune to Bertha, they would be rich. They would sell
everything, and would depart rejoicing to some distant clime. As
to his memory, poor man, it would amuse them to think of him as the
cheated and despised husband.

"Never!" cried he, drunk with fury, "never! I must kill myself,
but first, I must avenge my dishonor!"

But he tried in vain to imagine a punishment cruel or terrible
enough. What chastisement could expiate the horrible tortures which
he endured? He said to himself that, in order to assure his
vengeance, he must wait--and he swore that he would wait. He would
feign the same stolid confidence, and resigned himself to see and
hear everything.

"My hypocrisy will equal theirs," thought he.

Indeed a cautious duplicity was necessary. Bertha was most cunning,
and at the first suspicion would fly with her lover. Hector had
already--thanks to him--several hundred thousand francs. The
idea that they might escape his vengeance gave him energy and a
clear head.

It was only then that he thought of the flight of time, the rain
falling in torrents, and the state of his clothes.

"Bah!" thought he, "I will make up some story to account for myself."

He was only a league from Valfeuillu, but he was an hour and a half
reaching home. He was broken, exhausted; he felt chilled to the
marrow of his bones. But when he entered the gate, he had succeeded
in assuming his usual expression, and the gayety which so well
hinted his perfect trustfulness. He had been waited for, but in
spite of his resolutions, he could not sit at table between this
man and woman, his