The Mystery of Orcival by Émile Gaboriau (fiction book recommendations .TXT) 📕

to do so. Sauvresy caught her at a bound, shut the door, and said, in a low, hoarse voice:

“Wretched girl! Do you wish me to strike you?”

He pushed her into a chair, returned to the door, double locked it, and put the keys in his pocket. “Now,” said he, returning to the girl, “the letter.”

Jenny had never been so terrified in her life. This man’s rage made her tremble; she saw that he was beside himself, that she was completely at his mercy; yet she still resisted him.

“You have hurt me very much,” said she, crying, “but I have done you no harm.”

He grasped her hands in his, and bending over her, repeated:

“For the last time, the letter; give it to me, or I will take it by force.”

It would have been folly to resist longer. “Leave me alone,” said she. “You shall have it.”

He released her, remaining, however, close by her side, while she searched in all her pockets. Her hair had been loosened in the struggle, her collar was torn, she was tired, her teeth chattered, but her eyes shone with a bold resolution.

“Wait⁠—here it is⁠—no. It’s odd⁠—I am sure I’ve got it though⁠—I had it a minute ago⁠—”

And, suddenly, with a rapid gesture, she put the letter, rolled into a ball, into her mouth, and tried to swallow it. But Sauvresy as quickly grasped her by the throat, and she was forced to disgorge it.

He had the letter at last. His hands trembled so that he could scarcely open it.

It was, indeed, Bertha’s writing.

Sauvresy tottered with a horrible sensation of dizziness; he could not see clearly; there was a red cloud before his eyes; his legs gave way under him, he staggered, and his hands stretched out for a support. Jenny, somewhat recovered, hastened to give him help; but her touch made him shudder, and he repulsed her. What had happened he could not tell. Ah, he wished to read this letter and could not. He went to the table, turned out and drank two large glasses of water one after another. The cold draught restored him, his blood resumed its natural course, and he could see. The note was short, and this was what he read:

“Don’t go tomorrow to Petit-Bourg; or rather, return before breakfast. He has just told me that he must go to Melun, and that he should return late. A whole day!”

“He”⁠—that was himself. This other lover of Hector’s was Bertha, his wife. For a moment he saw nothing but that; all thought was crushed within him. His temples beat furiously, he heard a dreadful buzzing in his ears, it seemed to him as if the earth were about to swallow him up. He fell into a chair; from purple he became ashy white. Great tears trickled down his cheeks.

Jenny understood the miserable meanness of her conduct when she saw this great grief, this silent despair, this man with a broken heart. Was she not the cause of all? She had guessed who the writer of the note was. She thought when she asked Sauvresy to come to her, that she could tell him all, and thus avenge herself at once upon Hector and her rival. Then, on seeing this man refusing to comprehend her hints, she had been full of pity for him. She had said to herself that he would be the one who would be most cruelly punished; and then she had recoiled⁠—but too late⁠—and he had snatched the secret from her.

She approached Sauvresy and tried to take his hands; he still repulsed her.

“Let me alone,” said he.

“Pardon me, sir⁠—I am a wretch, I am horrified at myself.”

He rose suddenly; he was gradually coming to himself.

“What do you want?”

“That letter⁠—I guessed⁠—”

He burst into a loud, bitter, discordant laugh, and replied:

“God forgive me! Why, my dear, did you dare to suspect my wife?”

While Jenny was muttering confused excuses, he drew out his pocketbook and took from it all the money it contained⁠—some seven or eight hundred francs⁠—which he put on the table.

“Take this, from Hector,” said he, “he will not permit you to suffer for anything; but, believe me, you had best let him get married.”

Then he mechanically took up his gun, opened the door, and went out. His dogs leaped upon him to caress him; he kicked them off. Where was he going? What was he going to do?

XVIII

A small, fine, chilly rain had succeeded the morning fog; but Sauvresy did not perceive it. He went across the fields with his head bare, wandering at hazard, without aim or discretion. He talked aloud as he went, stopping ever and anon, then resuming his course. The peasants who met him⁠—they all knew him⁠—turned to look at him after having saluted him, asking themselves whether the master of Valfeuillu had not gone mad. Unhappily he was not mad. Overwhelmed by an unheard-of, unlooked-for catastrophe, his brain had been for a moment paralyzed. But one by one he collected his scattered ideas and acquired the faculty of thinking and of suffering. Each one of his reflections increased his mortal anguish. Yes, Bertha and Hector had deceived, had dishonored him. She, beloved to idolatry; he, his best and oldest friend, a wretch that he had snatched from misery, who owed him everything. And it was in his house, under his own roof, that this infamy had taken place. They had taken advantage of his noble trust, had made a dupe of him. The frightful discovery not only embittered the future, but also the past. He longed to blot out of his life these years passed with Bertha, with whom, but the night before, he had recalled these “happiest years of his life.” The memory of his former happiness filled his soul with disgust. But how had this been done? When? How was it he had seen nothing of it? And now things came into his mind which should have warned him had he not been blind. He recalled