Hector assumed a melancholy expression of
countenance, such as a man ought to have who had undergone
unheard-of misfortunes, and whose life had failed of its promise.
He appeared inoffensive; people said:
"The count has a charming simplicity."
But sometimes, when alone, he had sudden and terrible relapses.
"This life cannot last," thought he; and he was overcome with
childish rage when he contrasted the past with the present. How
could he shake off this dull existence, and rid himself of these
stiffly good people who surrounded him, these friends of Sauvresy?
Where should he take refuge? He was not tempted to return to Paris;
what could he do there? His house had been sold to an old leather
merchant; and he had no money except that which he borrowed of
Sauvresy. Yet Sauvresy, to Hector's mind, was a most uncomfortable,
wearisome, implacable friend; he did not understand half-way
measures in desperate situations.
"Your boat is foundering," he said to Hector; "let us begin by
throwing all that is superfluous into the sea. Let us keep nothing
of the past; that is dead; we will bury it, and nothing shall recall
it. When your situation is relieved, we will see.
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