“I have so arranged, besides, that the idea of flight shall not tempt you too much.  It is true I have left all my fortune to Bertha, but I only give her the use of it; the property itself will not be hers until the day after your marriage.”

Bertha made a gesture of repugnance which her husband misinterpreted.

“You are thinking of the copy of my will which is in your possession.  It is a useless one, and I only added to it some valueless words because I wanted to put your suspicions to sleep.  My true will is in the notary’s hands, and bears a date two days later.  I can read you the rough draft of it.”

He took a sheet of paper from a portfolio which was concealed; like the revolver, under the bolster, and read: 

“Being stricken with a fatal malady, I here set down freely, and in the fulness of my faculties, my last wishes: 

“My dearest wish is that my well-beloved widow, Bertha, should espouse, as soon as the delay enjoined by law has expired, my dear friend, the Count Hector de Tremorel.  Having appreciated the grandeur of soul and nobleness of sentiment which belong to my wife and friend, I know that they are worthy of each other, and that each will be happy in the other.  I die the more peacefully, as I leave my Bertha to a protector whose—­”

It was impossible for Bertha to hear more.

“For pity’s sake,” cried she, “enough.”

“Enough?  Well, let it be so,” responded Sauvresy.  “I have read this paper to you to show you that while I have arranged everything to insure the execution of my will; I have also done all that can preserve to you the world’s respect.  Yes, I wish that you should be esteemed and honored, for it is you alone upon whom I rely for my vengeance.  I have knit around you a net-work which you can never burst asunder.  You triumph; my tombstone shall be, as you hoped, the altar of your nuptials, or else—­the galleys.”

Tremorel’s pride at last revolted against so many humiliations, so many whip-strokes lashing his face.

“You have only forgotten one thing, Sauvresy; that a man can die.”

“Pardon me,” replied the sick man, coldly.  “I have foreseen that also, and was just going to tell you so.  Should one of you die suddenly before the marriage, the police will be called in.”

“You misunderstood me; I meant that a man can kill himself.”

“You kill yourself?  Humph!  Jenny, who disdains you almost as much as I do, has told me about your threats to kill yourself.  You!  See here; here is my revolver; shoot yourself, and I will forgive my wife!”

Hector made a gesture of anger, but did not take the pistol.

“You see,” said Sauvresy, “I knew it well.  You are afraid.”  Turning to Bertha, he added, “This is your lover.”

Extraordinary situations like this are so unwonted and strange that the actors in them almost always remain composed and natural, as if stupefied.  Bertha, Hector, and Sauvresy accepted, without taking note of it, the strange position in which they found themselves; and they talked naturally, as if of matters of every-day life, and not of terrible events.  But the hours flew, and Sauvresy perceived his life to be ebbing from him.