Since the wedding of Jacques Percier and Suzanne, life had been all but unendurable in the pretty little cottage at the corner of the wood. Savin, convinced that his wife no longer loved him, experienced the countless pangs of ruined affection. Catherine had continued to pose as a martyr and he had persecuted her until she was indeed to be pitied. He had brutally resolved to give her cause to complain. He had exacted that the house should be irreproachably neat and orderly, and that the meals should be ready precisely on the hour. The breach had widened day by day. Savin had become more rude and Catherine more irreconcilable. They had addressed each other only in terms of hatred or anger. Nearly every day there had been disagreeable scenes between the two. “Do not force me to use violence,” said Barrau savagely one day, at which remark Catherine was naturally indignant. Both were at love’s antipodes. All peace was at an end, and the more Catherine reflected the more she felt that nothing but her husband’s death could bring relief. And having an overwhelming desire to confide in somebody, she had thought of Bruno. But now she perceived how revolting it must have been to his noble mind. The words she had spoken had stunned and driven him away. However, she would not have told Bruno had he not urged, nay begged, her to do so. He had presumed, of course, that she was going to propose an elopement, and while that would have been a serious undertaking, he felt able to brave all for her. Once far away from St. Benoit, he had dreamed of working for Catherine and devoting himself to her happiness. But when he heard the young woman proposing to kill Savin he could scarcely trust his ears, and we already have seen with what fear he fled from her. Like most of the peasants, Bruno was a very good marksman. He could handle a gun with considerable skill, and the idea had occurred to Catherine to address him just as she would have made the same proposition, under similar circumstances, to Firmin, Fadard, or even to Andoche, if the latter ever had had a thought for anything but the bottle. But Bruno was desperately in love with her and professedly willing to die for her sake. But she did not know that Bruno would sooner cut off his right hand or tear out his heart than lie in wait for an honest man to kill him. Not even for love’s sake could he resort to treachery and villainy. Noticing how Bruno received her terrible suggestion, she had been moved to contrition. “He did right to leave me in dismay, the honest fellow,” she had said as she entered the cottage. “I could embrace him for refusing. Who knows but that he may save my life a second time? Brave Bruno!”