Sauvresy at this time made several journeys to Paris, where, as
everybody knew, he was engaged in arranging his friend's affairs.

"This charming existence lasted a year. Happiness seemed to be
fixed forever beneath the delightful shades of Valfeuillu. But
alas! one evening on returning from the hunt, Sauvresy became so
ill that he was forced to take to his bed. A doctor was called;
inflammation of the chest had set in. Sauvresy was young,
vigorous as an oak; his state did not at first cause anxiety.
A fortnight afterward, in fact, he was up and about. But he was
imprudent and had a relapse. He again nearly recovered; a week
afterward there was another relapse, and this time so serious,
that a fatal end of his illness was foreseen. During this long
sickness, the love of Bertha and the affection of Tremorel for
Sauvresy were tenderly shown. Never was an invalid tended with
such solicitude--surrounded with so many proofs of the purest
devotion. His wife and his friend were always at his couch,
night and day. He had hours of suffering, but never a second of
weariness. He repeated to all who went to see him, that he had
come to bless his illness. He said to himself, 'If I had not
fallen ill, I should never have known how much I was beloved.'"

"He said the same thing to me," interrupted the mayor, "more than a
hundred times. He also said so to Madame Courtois, to Laurence,
my eldest daughter--"

"Naturally," continued M. Plantat. "But Sauvresy's distemper was
one against which the science of the most skilful physicians and
the most constant care contend in vain.