“Really,” said he, “I don’t feel well.”

When he had retired, Bertha said: 

“Did you notice, Hector?”

“What?”

“Something unusual has happened to him.”

“Very likely, after being all day in the rain.”

“No.  His eye had a look I never saw before.”

“He seemed to be very cheerful, as he always is.”

“Hector, my husband suspects!”

“He?  Ah, my poor good friend has too much confidence in us to think of being jealous.”

“You deceive yourself, Hector; he did not embrace me when he came in, and it is the first time since our marriage.”

Thus, at the very first, he had made a blunder.  He knew it well; but it was beyond his power to embrace Bertha at that moment; and he was suffering more than he thought he should.  When his wife and his friend ascended to his room, after dinner, they found him shivering under the sheets, red, his forehead burning, his throat dry, and his eyes shining with an unusual brilliancy.  A fever soon came on, attended by delirium.  A doctor was called, who at first said he would not answer for him.  The next day he was worse.  From this time both Hector and Bertha conceived for him the most tender devotion.  Did they think they should thus in some sort expiate their crime?  It is doubtful.  More likely they tried to impose on the people about them; everyone was anxious for Sauvresy.  They never deserted him for a moment, passing the night by turns near his bed.  And it was painful to watch over him; a furious delirium never left him.  Several times force had to be used to keep him on the bed; he tried to throw himself out of the window.  The third day he had a strange fancy; he did not wish to stay in his chamber.  He kept crying out: 

“Carry me away from here, carry me away from here.”

The doctor advised that he should be humored; so a bed was made up for him in a little room on the ground-floor, overlooking the garden.  His wanderings did not betray anything of his suspicions; perhaps the firm will was able even to control the delirium.  The fever finally yielded on the ninth day.  His breathing became calmer, and he slept.  When he awoke, reason had returned.  That was a frightful moment.  He had, so to speak, to take up the burden of his misery.  At first he thought it the memory of a horrid night-mare; but no.  He had not dreamed.  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.