Sauvresy could not repress an agonized cry, which was lost amid the noises of the night. He had asked for certainty; here it was. The truth, indisputable, evident, was clear to him. He had to seek for nothing more, now, except for the means to punish surely and terribly. Bertha and Hector were talking amicably. Sauvresy saw that she was about to go downstairs, and that he could not now go for the letter. He went in hurriedly, forgetting, in his fear of being discovered, to lock the garden door. He did not perceive that he had been standing with naked feet in the snow, till he had returned to his bedroom again; he saw some flakes on his slippers, and they were damp; quickly he threw them under the bed, and jumped in between the clothes, and pretended to be asleep.
It was time, for Bertha soon came in. She went to the bed, and thinking that he had not woke up, returned to her embroidery by the fire. Tremorel also soon reappeared; he had forgotten to take his paper, and had come back for it. He seemed uneasy.
"Have you been out to-night, Madame?" asked he, in a low voice.
"No."
"Have all the servants gone to bed?"
"I suppose so; but why do you ask?"
"Since I have been upstairs, somebody has gone out into the garden, and come back again."
Bertha looked at him with a troubled glance.
"Are you sure of what you say?"
"Certainly. Snow is falling, and whoever went out brought some back on his shoes. This has melted in the vestibule—"