"Do you know," said he, "that our friend has an income of sixty thousand crowns? We'll find an estate for him near by, and then we shall see him and his wife every day. They will be very pleasant society for us in the autumn months. Hector is a fine fellow, and you've often told me how charming Laurence is." Bertha did not reply. This unexpected blow was so terrible that she could not think clearly, and her brain whirled. "You don't say anything," pursued Sauvresy. "Don't you approve of my project? I thought you'd be enchanted with it." She saw that if she were silent any longer, her husband would go in and find her sunk upon a chair, and would guess all. She made an effort and said, in a strangled voice, without attaching any sense to her words: "Yes, yes; it is a capital idea." "How you say that! Do you see any objections?" She was trying to find some objection, but could not. "I have a little fear of Laurence's future," said she at last. "Bah! Why?" "I only say what I've heard you say. You told me that Monsieur Tremorel has been a libertine, a gambler, a prodigal--" "All the more reason for trusting him. His past follies guarantee his future prudence. He has received a lesson which he will not forget. Besides, he will love his wife." "How do you know?" "Parbleu, he loves her already." "Who told you so?" "Himself." And Sauvresy began to laugh about Hector's passion, which he said was becoming quite pastoral. "Would you believe," said he, laughing, "that he thinks our worthy Courtois a man of wit? Ah, what spectacles these lovers look through! He spends two or three hours every day with the mayor. What do you suppose he does there?" Bertha, by great effort, succeeded in dissembling her grief; she reappeared with a smiling face. She went and came, apparently calm, though suffering the bitterest anguish a woman can endure. And she could not run to Hector, and ask him if it were true! For Sauvresy must be deceiving her. Why? She knew not. No matter. She felt her hatred of him increasing to disgust; for she excused and pardoned her lover, and she blamed her husband alone. Whose idea was this marriage? His. Who had awakened Hector's hopes, and encouraged them? He, always he. While he had been harmless, she had been able to pardon him for having married her; she had compelled herself to bear him, to feign a love quite foreign to her heart. But now he became hateful; should she submit to his interference in a matter which was life or death to her? She did not close her eyes all night; she had one of those horrible nights in which crimes are conceived. She did not find herself alone with Hector until after breakfast the next day, in the billiard-hall. "Is it true?" she asked. The expression of her face was so menacing that he quailed before it. He stammered: "True--what?" "Your marriage."