He recalled the Belle Image, Jenny, the forest,
the letter. What had become of the letter? Then, having the vague
impression of a serious illness, he asked himself if he had said
anything to betray the source of his misery. This anxiety prevented
his making the slightest movement, and he opened his eyes softly and
cautiously. It was eleven at night, and all the servants had gone
to bed. Hector and Bertha alone were keeping watch; he was reading
a paper, she was crocheting. Sauvresy saw by their placid
countenances that he had betrayed nothing. He moved slightly;
Bertha at once arose and came to him.

"How are you, dear Clement?" asked she, kissing him fondly on the
forehead.

"I am no longer in pain."

"You see the result of being careless."

"How many days have I been sick?"

"Eight days."

"Why was I brought here?"

"Because you wished it."

Tremorel had approached the bedside.

"You refused to stay upstairs," said he, "you were ungovernable
till we had you brought here."

"But don't tire yourself," resumed Hector. "Go to sleep again, and
you will be well by to-morrow. And good-night, for I am going to
bed now, and shall return and wake your wife at four o'clock."

He went out, and Bertha, having given Sauvresy something to drink,
returned to her seat.

"What a friend Tremorel is," murmured she. Sauvresy did not answer
this terribly ironical exclamation. He shut his eyes, pretended to
sleep, and thought of the letter. What had he done with it? He
remembered that he had carefully folded it and put it in the
right-hand pocket of his vest. He must have this letter. It would
balk his vengeance, should it fall into his wife's hands; and this
might happen at any moment. It was a miracle that his valet had
not put it on the mantel, as he was accustomed to do with the things
which he found in his master's pockets. He was reflecting on some
means of getting it, of the possibility of going up to his bedroom,
where his vest ought to be, when Bertha got up softly. She came to
the bed and whispered gently:

"Clement, Clement!"

He did not open his eyes, and she, persuaded that he was sleeping,
though very lightly, stole out of the room, holding her breath as
she went.

"Oh, the wretch!" muttered Sauvresy, "she is going to him!"

At the same time the necessity of recovering the letter occurred to
him more vividly than ever.

"I can get to my room," thought he, "without being seen, by the
garden and back-s