"It proves all," said he, "and it proves nothing."
And he read once more.
"Do not go to-morrow to Petit-Bourg—"
Well, had he not again and again, in his idiotic confidence, said to
Hector:
"I shall be away to-morrow, stay here and keep Bertha company."
This sentence, then, had no positive signification. But why add:
"Or rather, return before breakfast."
This was what betrayed fear, that is, the fault. To go away and return again anon, was to be cautious, to avoid suspicion. Then, why "he," instead of, "Clement?" This word was striking. "He"—that is, the dear one, or else, the master that one hates. There is no medium—'tis the husband, or the lover. "He," is never an indifferent person. A husband is lost when his wife, in speaking of him, says, "He."
But when had Bertha written these few lines? Doubtless some evening after they had retired to their room. He had said to her, "I'm going to-morrow to Melun," and then she had hastily scratched off this note and given it, in a book, to Hector.
Alas! the edifice of his happiness, which had seemed to him strong enough to defy every tempest of life, had crumbled, and he stood there lost in the midst of its debris. No more happiness, joys, hopes—nothing! All his plans for the future rested on Bertha; her name was mingled in his every dream, she was at once the future and the dream. He had so loved her that she had become something of himself, that he could not imagine himself without her. Bertha lost to him, he saw no direction in life to take, he had no further reason for living. He perceived this so vividly that the idea of suicide came to him. He had his gun, powder and balls; his death would be attributed to a hunting accident, and all would be over.