y!"

"He"--that was himself. This other lover of Hector's was Bertha,
his wife. For a moment he saw nothing but that; all thought was
crushed within him. His temples beat furiously, he heard a dreadful
buzzing in his ears, it seemed to him as if the earth were about to
swallow him up. He fell into a chair; from purple he became ashy
white. Great tears trickled down his cheeks.

Jenny understood the miserable meanness of her conduct when she saw
this great grief, this silent despair, this man with a broken heart.
Was she not the cause of all? She had guessed who the writer of the
note was. She thought when she asked Sauvresy to come to her, that
she could tell him all, and thus avenge herself at once upon Hector
and her rival. Then, on seeing this man refusing to comprehend her
hints, she had been full of pity for him. She had said to herself
that he would be the one who would be most cruelly punished; and
then she had recoiled--but too late--and he had snatched the
secret from her.

She approached Sauvresy and tried to take his hands; he still
repulsed her.

"Let me alone," said he.

"Pardon me, sir--I am a wretch, I am horrified at myself."

He rose suddenly; he was gradually coming to himself.

"What do you want?"

"That letter--I guessed--"

He burst into a loud, bitter, discordant laugh, and replied:

"God forgive me! Why, my dear, did you dare to suspect my wife?"

While Jenny was muttering confused excuses, he drew out his
pocket-book and took from it all the money it contained--some
seven or eight hundred francs--which he put on the table.

"Take this, from Hector," said he, "he will not permit you to suffer
for anything; but, believe me, you had best let him get married."

Then he mechanically took up his gun, opened the door, and went out.
His dogs leaped upon him to caress him; he kicked them off. Where
was he going? What was he going to do?

XVIII

A small, fine, chilly rain had succeeded the morning fog; but
Sauvresy did not perceive it. He went across the fields with his
head bare, wandering at hazard, without aim or discretion. He
talked aloud as he went, stopping ever and anon, then resuming
his course. The peasants who met him--they all knew him--turned
to look at him after having saluted him, asking themselves whether
the master of Valfeuillu had not gone mad. Unhappily he was not
mad. Overwhelmed by an unheard-of, unlooked-for catastrophe, his
bra