“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-stairs.  She thinks I’m asleep; I shall get back and abed before she returns.”

Then, without asking himself whether he were not too feeble, or what danger there might be in exposing himself to the cold, he got up, threw a gown around him, put on his slippers and went toward the door.

“If anyone sees me, I will feign delirium,” said he to himself.

The vestibule lamp was out and he found some difficulty in opening the door; finally, he descended into the garden.  It was intensely cold, and snow had fallen.  The wind shook the limbs of the trees crusted with ice.  The front of the house was sombre.  One window only was lighted—­that of Tremorel’s room; that was lighted brilliantly, by a lamp and a great blazing fire.  The shadow of a man—­of Hector—­rested on the muslin curtains; the shape was distinct.  He was near the window, and his forehead was pressed against the panes.  Sauvresy instinctively stopped to look at his friend, who was so at home in his house, and who, in exchange for the most brotherly hospitality, had brought dishonor, despair and death.