While she was gone, Sauvresy said to Hector: 

“Poor girl!  Poor dear Bertha!  If I died, she never would survive me!”

Tremorel thought of nothing to reply; his anxiety was intense and visible.

“And this man,” thought he, “suspects something!  No; it is not possible.”

Bertha returned.

“I have found it,” said she.

“Give it to me.”

He took the copy of his will, and read it with evident satisfaction, nodding his head at certain passages in which he referred to his love for his wife.  When he had finished reading, he said: 

“Now give me a pen and some ink.”

Hector and Bertha reminded him that it would fatigue him to write; but he insisted.  The two guilty ones, seated at the foot of the bed and out of Sauvresy’s sight, exchanged looks of alarm.  What was he going to write?  But he speedily finished it.

“Take this,” said he to Tremorel, “and read aloud what I have just added.”

Hector complied with his friend’s request, with trembling voice: 

“This day, being sound in mind, though much suffering, I declare that I do not wish to change a line of this will.  Never have I loved my wife more—­never have I so much desired to leave her the heiress of all I possess, should I die before her.

  “Clement Sauvresy.”

Mistress of herself as Bertha was, she succeeded in concealing the unspeakable satisfaction with which she was filled.  All her wishes were accomplished, and yet she was able to veil her delight under an apparent sadness.

“Of what good is this?” said she, with a sigh.

She said this, but half an hour afterward, when she was alone with Hector, she gave herself up to the extravagance of her delight.

“Nothing more to fear,” exclaimed she.  “Nothing!  Now we shall have liberty, fortune, love, pleasure, life!  Why, Hector, we shall have at least three millions; you see, I’ve got this will myself, and I shall keep it.  No more agents or notaries shall be admitted into this house henceforth.  Now I must hasten!”

The count certainly felt a satisfaction in knowing her to be rich, for he could much more easily get rid of a millionnaire widow than of a poor penniless woman.  Sauvresy’s conduct thus calmed many sharp anxieties.  Her restless gayety, however, her confident security, seemed monstrous to Hector.  He would have wished for more solemnity in the execution of the crime; he thought that he ought at least to calm Bertha’s delirium.

“You will think more than once of Sauvresy,” said he, in a graver tone.

She answered with a “prrr,” and added vivaciously: 

“Of him? when and why?  Oh, his memory will not weigh on me very heavily.  I trust that we shall be able to live still at Valfeuillu, for the place pleases me; but we must also have a house at Paris—­ or we will buy yours back again.  What happiness, Hector!”