Paula Monti; or, The Hôtel Lambert

Bertha, who from time to time looked at Arnold, was alarmed at his increasing paleness, and exclaimed, "Monsieur Arnold, what ails you? Oh! how pale you are!"

"Your hand is icy cold, my friend," said Pierre Raimond, who was sitting beside M. de Hansfeld.

"It is nothing—nothing!" he replied; "but I am so ridiculously weak. There are certain airs which are really dates to me, and many of the melodies of Fidelio are closely connected with past sorrows."

"Yet I have played this piece before to you," said Bertha, leaving the piano, and seating herself beside her father.

"You have, indeed, and I had the greatest pleasure in listening to your brilliant execution. But to-day—I know not how it is—oh, forgive me, forgive me, that I cannot subdue my emotion!" and De Hansfeld hid his face in his hands.

Bertha and the old man looked sorrowfully at each other, participating in the grief of their friend, although they did not comprehend it.

After some moments' silence Arnold raised his head. It is impossible to depict the bitter sadness of his pale and mild countenance. A tear came into Bertha's eye, and with a charming ingenuousness she took her father's hand to wipe it.

"You suffer," said the old man to Arnold. "Why is not our friendship of an older date, for then you might alleviate your troubles by revealing them?"

"I have often thought of this, but shame has prevented me," said Arnold, in a dejected tone.

"Shame!" exclaimed Raimond with surprise.

"Do not misunderstand the word, my friend," said Arnold. "Thank God, I have done nothing at which I need blush! I am only ashamed of my weakness—ashamed of being so sensitive of recollections, which ought to be equally despised and forgotten."

"Fear nothing: we understand—we pity you. My poor girl has often wept here, too, over recollections which, like yours, ought to be equally despised and forgotten. Come, Arnold," said the engraver, "if I desire your confidence, it is because we also may, on our side, have some sad avowals to make to you."

"You, too! you have been unhappy?" said Arnold.

"Very unhappy," replied the old man; "but, thank God, those bad days are, I trust, passed! It seems to me that you have brought us happiness; not only have you saved my life, but you have also made that life pleasant to me, as, indeed, for a very long time I have not met with any one whose mind and taste so assimilated with my own. I do not know what may be the influence of your lucky star, but since we have known you, my poor Bertha herself is less sad, her domestic sorrows seem diminished; in fact, you have been to us the happy augury of a quiet, tranquil existence."

"Oh, what you say, my dear father, is quite true," said Bertha. "Ah, Monsieur Arnold, if you knew how much he loves you; and when I am alone with him he speaks of you in such terms!"

"That is quite true," said the old man: "if you could hear us you would be sure that you have no friends more sincere. Bertha is so grateful to you for having saved my life, that after me she loves you better than any one in the world!"

"Oh yes, poor dear father!" said Bertha, embracing the old man.

M. de Hansfeld listened to Pierre Raimond with profound veneration. This frank and honest language was as new as flattering to him. Must he not have inspired a perfect confidence in Pierre Raimond, if he did not hesitate from speaking thus to him even in his daughter's presence?

Bertha herself, so far from seeming confused or embarrassed, seemed to confirm what her father said, her brow beaming brightly with candour and sincerity.

M. de Hansfeld blushed at his own dissimulation in presence of such noble frankness, and was on the point of telling Pierre Raimond his real name, but he dreaded the indignation which this tardy avowal might, perhaps, excite in the old engraver's mind, knowing as he did his anti-aristocratic prejudices. He thus, therefore, hit upon a kind of mezzo termine in the half confidence he made to Bertha and her father.

After a few moments' silence he said to Pierre Raimond,—

"You are right, my friend—you have set me an example of confidence. I will imitate you. Perhaps I may inspire you with some interest by certain similarities between my position and that of your daughter; for you have told me that her marriage is not a happy one, and it is to my own marriage that I owe my bitterest grief."

"You married, and so young?" said Raimond with astonishment.

"These two years."

"And your wife?" inquired Bertha.

"She is in Germany," replied M. de Hansfeld, after a moment's hesitation.

"And some passages in the overture to Fidelio that Bertha played have no doubt recalled painful recollections?"

"Alas, yes! When I first knew her whom I married, I was at the height of my first admiration for this opera of Beethoven. I have always had the habit of attaching my thoughts of the moment to certain passages in the music I love—thoughts which for me became, I may say, the words of the airs I love most. Well, then, the opera of Fidelio always reminds me of the phases of my ill-starred love."

"Ah, now I can understand your emotion!" said Bertha, shaking her head mournfully.

"Let me assure you, my friend," said Pierre Raimond, cordially, "that you will never speak to hearts more fully sympathising."

M. de Hansfeld then related what follows of his marriage with Paula Monti; which was true in all points, except the substitution of the name of Arnold Schneider for that of Hansfeld.

CHAPTER XXX

RECITAL

"An orphan almost as soon as I was born," said the prince, "I was brought up by an old servant of my family. We dwelt in a retired village, where we lived in complete solitude. The pastor was a painter and musician, and recognised in me certain inclinations for those arts, to which I devoted all my time.

"The first years of my life were peaceable and happy. I loved old Frantz as a father, and he took the most tender care of me, only reproaching me for forsaking athletic exercises, and only leaving my study for occasional walks in our lovely mountains. I had none of the tastes of my age, but was serious, taciturn, melancholy. Music caused in me the most ecstatic delight, to which I gave myself up unreservedly. At eighteen years of age I went with my old servant a journey to Italy. For two years I studied the chefs-d'œuvre of the great masters in the different cities where we stayed, seeing very few persons, and being perfectly happy in my indolent, dreaming, contemplative life. I arrived at Venice. My admiration for the arts had, until then, occupied my whole existence; the passionate love with which they inspired me sufficed to occupy my heart. At Venice chance threw me in the society of a female, whose influence was destined to be so baneful to me. This woman, whom I married, was named Paula Monti."

"Was she handsome?" asked Bertha.

"Exceedingly!—but of a serious style of beauty. Strange contrast! I have always been weak and timid, and yet became enamoured of a woman of energetic and masculine character. It was my first love. I, unquestionably, obeyed rather an instinct, a desire to love something, than a deeply-seated feeling, and I became passionately enamoured of Paula Monti. She received my attentions with indifference, but I was not repulsed. She seemed to me unhappy. I had some hope. I redoubled my assiduities, and formally demanded her hand in marriage from her aunt. I was then rich, the match appeared eligible to her, and she consented. I had with Paula a decisive interview. I will confess that she told me she had ardently loved a man who was to have been her husband; and although this man was dead, his remembrance still remained so constant and so cherished in her thought that it absorbed her quite entirely, and that my love was indifferent to her. This confession wounded me deeply, yet I saw in Paula's frankness but a guarantee for the future, and I did not despair of overcoming the coldness she testified by my cares and attention. She did not conceal from me, that but for the unceasing influence of the past, which she so bitterly deplored, she might, perhaps, have loved me.

"Then I cradled myself in the most visionary hopes—my passion was real—Paula Monti was touched by it; but her delicacy then took alarm at the disproportion of our fortunes.

"The loss of a lawsuit had completely ruined her family. I overcame her scruples—she promised me her hand, but repeating that she could not offer me more than a perfectly sisterly affection.

"Yet I found incredible happiness in this chilling union. At first my hopes increased; for, excepting some moments of extreme grief, although Paula's disposition was melancholy, her temper was equal, and she was at times even affectionate. I already anticipated a more happy future, when one day—oh! no, no—never—I never can proceed!" said the prince, concealing his face in his hands.

Bertha and her father looked on in silence, not venturing to ask Arnold to continue a recital evidently so painful to him; but, after a pause, he thus proceeded:—

"Why should I conceal her crimes? My indulgence has been a culpable weakness, and I ought to pay the penalty. We were passing the summer at Trieste; for several days Paula had been in a dark, irritable humour, and I scarcely saw her. When she was in these fits of dark sorrow, she could not bear any one near her but a young gipsy girl, whom she had adopted out of charity. This poor child was, out of gratitude, tenderly devoted to my wife.

"In order to understand what follows," said the prince, "I must enter into some few minute particulars. At the end of the garden of our house at Trieste was a pavilion where we used to take tea nearly every evening. One night Paula had, after much entreaty, promised to come and pass an hour there with me, I was in hopes that I might thus distract her from her mournful thoughts.

"I shall never forget the sad and despairing expression of her countenance during this evening; she received almost with anger and disdain some words of tenderness which I addressed to her.

"Painfully wounded at her repulsive conduct I quitted the pavilion.

"After a few turns in the garden I became more composed; remembering that Paula had forewarned me that she was still sometimes under the influence of painful recollections, I returned to the pavilion. She had left it. They had brought in the tea during my absence, and I found the cup of sugared milk, which I took every evening, standing prepared for me. I felt grateful to Paula for the attention, by which, however, I did not profit. I had a spaniel to which I was greatly attached, and mechanically I presented to him the cup which Paula had prepared for me. He drank eagerly, and almost instantly the unfortunate animal fell on the ground, trembled in every limb, and died after a few moments' agony."

"Oh, I understand—how horrible!" exclaimed Pierre Raimond.

Bertha looked at her father with surprise. "What do you mean, my dear father?" she said. Then, as if suddenly enlightened by a moment's reflection, she added, horror-struck, "No, no, it is impossible, Monsieur Arnold—impossible! a woman is incapable of a crime so frightful!"

"You think so?" replied Arnold, with bitterness. "After some minutes' reflection I said as you do, 'It is impossible!' I have attributed to chance this fearful fact, and even reproached myself cruelly for having suspected Paula for a moment."

"And when you saw your wife again," said Pierre Raimond, "how did she receive you?"

"She was perfectly calm and self-possessed, and if I had any doubts remaining they would have been completely dissipated in the evening. I had left Paula dull, and almost morose; the next day I found her tranquil, affectionate, and kind; she held out her hand, and asked my pardon for having left me so abruptly on the previous evening."

"Such hypocrisy is inconceivable," said Pierre Raimond.

"Oh, no, no—she was not culpable! her calmness proves it," said Bertha.

"I thought as you do," continued M. de Hansfeld, "there was so much sincerity in her accent. And her look, her language, was so natural, that, overcome by remorse and shame, I fell at her feet, and, bursting into tears, begged her pardon. She looked at me with surprise. I dared not explain myself further, for if innocent my suspicion was an abominable outrage. I replied to her that I feared I had been hasty with her on the previous evening. She believed me, and here this ended.

"How can I describe to you what passed in me after that day? My mad love for Paula increased, I may say in proportion to the reproaches I made against myself for my suspicions. I could not forgive myself for having dared to accuse a woman who had given me so many proofs of frankness."

"In truth," observed Bertha, "when you had asked her hand, why did she declare to you that her heart was not free, at the risk of breaking off a marriage so advantageous for her? No! no! she was innocent of that horrible crime."

"And you had no enemies?" asked Pierre Raimond.

"None that I know of."

"How, then, do you account for the sudden, convulsive death of the spaniel, in whose death there was every sign of poisoning?"

"I continued to bewilder myself on this inexplicable point, to prevent as it were my thoughts from dwelling on it, so anxious was I to believe in Paula's innocence. Painfully did I expiate this atrocious suspicion; twenty times I was on the point of confessing all to her, but I dared not, her affection for me was already so lukewarm, so uncertain—such an avowal would for ever have alienated us. However, for my own repose, I ought to have told her all, for she began to find my language occasionally wild,—my involuntary references seemed incoherent. Sometimes profoundly touched by a word or a tender attention on her part, I cried in a kind of bewilderment, 'I am very guilty—forgive me—I was wrong!'

"She inquired what I meant by these words, and then recovering myself, instead of explaining, I but reiterated more passionate protestations. Alas! very soon the slight affection I had obtained by so many cares, with so much trouble, gave way to a fresh coldness. She sometimes looked at me with an unquiet, frightened air—her fits of melancholy increased, and then the suspicions I had at first so energetically repulsed returned to my mind; then I drove them away again. Sometimes in spite of myself, I examined distrustfully the meat that was placed before me, and then, blushing with fear at this fresh insult to Paula, I left the table suddenly.

"In this trying and painful struggle my health became weaker, my temper soured, whilst Paula became more and more reserved towards me."

"Oh! what a life! what a life!" exclaimed Bertha, as she wiped away her tears.

"Alas!" said M. de Hansfeld, "that was nothing. We quitted Trieste at the end of autumn; my wife wished to pass the winter at Geneva, and then come to France. Surprised by a violent storm, we stopped a few leagues from Trieste in a wretched road-side inn at nightfall. The tempest redoubled its fury, and a torrent we had to cross had overflowed its banks; we were therefore compelled to pass the night at this auberge. The place was lonely, and the master of the hovel was an ill-looking fellow. I proposed to my wife that we should watch as late as possible and then sleep in a chair, that we might set out again before daybreak, as soon as the road was practicable. Our suite consisted of my two servants and the young girl who accompanied Paula. I had always been exceedingly kind to this girl, because I knew that it would please my wife; besides Iris (that was the Bohemian girl's name) was almost as much devoted to me as to her mistress. We occupied on that fatal night—ah! how fatal!—a small apartment, of which the only door opened into a closet in which was Frantz, my old servant. Paula could not conceal her fears; the wind seemed to shake the house to its very foundations, and we both watched very late. Alone in this chamber, I seated myself on a miserable truckle-bed, whilst my wife reposed in an arm-chair. Sleep overpowered me in spite of all my efforts.

"I am ignorant how long I slept, when I was suddenly awakened by a sharp pain inside my left arm. The room was completely dark. My first impulse was to seize the hand I felt pressing upon me—this thin and delicate hand grasped a sharp-pointed stiletto."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Bertha, alarmed and clasping her hands.

"What! another attempt? that is, indeed, frightful!" said Pierre Raimond.

Arnold continued,—

"Thanks to the darkness, they had thrust the stiletto between my body and my left arm, which was closely pressed against my side. Owing to the slight resistance which the blade of the dagger met in passing through this narrow space, it might be supposed that it had penetrated my breast. It was this mistake that saved me, and I escaped with only a slight wound in my arm!"

"How fortunate!" said Bertha,

"I have told you that my first movement, when I awoke, was to seize the hand which I felt pressing upon me, suddenly that hand became icy cold; I extended my other hand and touched a woman's gown. I smelt a slight perfume, such as Paula always used,—a horrid idea possessed my mind. I remembered the poison at Trieste—I had no longer any doubt. This revelation was so overwhelming that I cannot describe what passed within me; my reason wandered, and for some seconds I believed myself the sport of some horrible dream. During this vertigo the hand I had seized broke away, and when I recovered I was alone and still in darkness. 'Frantz! Frantz!' I cried, knocking at the wainscot which separated me from the closet in which my servant was. Frantz was not asleep, and in a minute entered the room bearing a light in his hand."

"And your wife?" inquired Bertha.

"Imagine my surprise!—my amazement! I almost doubted my senses! Paula was soundly asleep in the arm-chair by the fire-side."

"She feigned sleep," said Pierre Raimond.

"I was bewildered! She was asleep, or rather she pretended deep and quiet sleep so perfectly that her soft and regular breathing was not in the slightest degree affected by the terrible emotion she must unquestionably have felt. Her features were calm, her mouth slightly open, her complexion lightly tinged with the flush of sleep, and her countenance usually so serious was then almost smiling."

"It is scarcely credible," exclaimed Pierre Raimond; "what! your wife slept tranquilly after such an attempt?"

"Her sleep, I assure you, was so perfectly serene that I could not believe my eyes. Pale and haggard, I looked at her almost with affright."

"And there were no other women but herself in the auberge?" asked Bertha.

"None."

"And the young girl, the Bohemian?" inquired Pierre Raimond.

"Was in bed in a room which led out of the room in which Frantz was watching—he did not sleep—had a light, and it was impossible to enter our apartment without being seen."

"It must then have been so—this time—it must have been she!" said Bertha. "Mon Dieu! is such a crime possible?"

"The dissimulation astonishes me more than the crime," said Pierre Raimond.

"A last proof left me without any doubt," added Arnold; "on the floor at the feet of my wife, I saw a Florentine dagger—a valuable weapon chiselled by Benvenuto Cellini, which had been, I believe, left to Paula by her father."

"From this moment, then, you kept silent no longer," cried the engraver; "and it was after this new crime that you left this infamous creature in Germany?"

"If I hesitated to relate to you this horrible history, my friend," replied the prince, with a confused air, "it was because I was certain of my own weakness, or rather of the inexplicable influence that Paula maintained over me."

"What! after this fresh attempt?"

"Oh, if you knew what a frightful thing it is to doubt!"

"But this dagger-blow?" said Pierre Raimond.

"But this deep, tranquil sleep? the awaking so gentle, so peaceable?"

"When she saw you wounded, what did she say?" inquired Bertha.

"To depict her agony, her amazement, her anxious cares, would be impossible; with the most natural air in the world she declared that an investigation ought to take place. She also had remarked the sinister appearance of the master of the auberge, and, like myself, exhausted herself in vain conjecture. Frantz declared that he had seen no one pass him, and that they must have got in by a window which opened into the balcony, but that window was found closely shut. Paula's tone was so natural that my old servant, who never liked her, and had witnessed my marriage most reluctantly, never for an instant thought of accusing my wife."

"But the little thin hand you seized—the smell of the peculiar perfume which your wife used!" said Pierre Raimond.

"I repeat to you that my reason wandered in this labyrinth of singular contradictions. Paula, aided by Frantz, insisted on dressing my wound herself, and there was not the slightest affectation either in her manner or her language."

"To commit such a crime, and display such hypocrisy, is the height of wickedness!" said the engraver.

"Unquestionably; and the monstrousness of such a character excited my doubts in that of the evidence before me. To put the cope-stone on fatality, Paula, from interest, pity, or calculation, was never so affectionate, I ought almost say tender, as when bestowing all her attention upon me after this accident."

"Stratagem! infernal stratagem!" cried Pierre Raimond.

"It was, perhaps, remorse for her crime," said Bertha.

"It was my misfortune to hesitate in turns amongst so many conflicting facts. It would have been less distressing for me to have believed Paula completely guilty or completely innocent; but, on the contrary, by an inconceivable mobility of impression, I passed in turns from passionate love to fits of anger and horror. My agonies at Trieste were nothing in comparison with the torture I then endured. A head more weak than mine would not have resisted these shocks. Sometimes, after having testified to my wife, by some incoherent word, the terror with which she inspired me, reflecting that, in spite of frightful appearances, I had no real certainty, and might be perhaps deceived, I sobbed bitterly and implored her pardon. In the end she believed my senses were wandering. What shall I tell you? At first I found a bitter satisfaction in lending myself to this report, then in increasing and giving credibility to it by studied whims. This was not all; as soon as they believed me liable to fits of lunacy, I was enabled by this plea to give way to my mistrust, whilst my precaution being attributed to my derangement, my wife was in no way compromised. Sometimes believing my life threatened, I shut myself up alone for whole days, only eating bread and fruit which my faithful Frantz bought for me himself, and at other times, in my excessive terror I did not dare even to touch these simple aliments. At other times, I blushed at my alarm, and was convinced of Paula's innocence, and then returned to her with the most bitter repentance, but her reception of me was chill and disdainful."

"Poor Arnold!" said Pierre Raimond, with emotion; "no doubt you are weak, but this very weakness proceeds from a noble source; you fear to accuse Paula unjustly, and in truth there is something startling in saying to any one and that without certain proofs, 'You are a homicide, twice have you sought to assassinate me!'"

"Yes! and especially when these overwhelming words are to be addressed to a woman you have passionately loved; and when, too, together with material and almost undeniable proofs, there are other moral truths quite to the contrary, and when, moreover, a secret voice, a hidden revelation says to you with irresistible authority, 'No, this woman is not guilty.' Oh, I assure you, it is a hell!—a hell!"

"Now," said Bertha, "I can imagine why you have feigned derangement."

"But," added Pierre Raimond, "a last attempt has left you no doubt."

"None. The crime appeared then to me avowed; or, rather, as my love was exhausted, expended in these struggles and continual anguish, I had this time more courage than I had had before."

"And you now no longer love her?" said Bertha.

"No, for admitting even that I was as mad as I seemed, I deserved, at least, some pity, some interest, and my wife shewed none. Profiting by the solitude in which I lived (for we were then in a large city), she visited and went abroad a great deal, regardless of me. This hardness of heart revolted me. Either my wife was guilty, and my generosity to her ought to have touched her soul, however perverse; or she was innocent, and then the fits of grief which came over me after having vaguely accused her ought to have moved her."

"But why did you never frankly open the question? Why did you never boldly state your reproaches?" inquired Pierre Raimond.

"Only reflect: I should have but to say to her, 'I suspect you, I accuse you of having twice attempted to assassinate me'—might I not be deceived?"

"In truth, the position was a frightful one," said Bertha; "and what was the last occurrence which led to your separation?"

"A very short time since," said De Hansfeld, lowering his eyes, "I occupied with my wife an isolated house. I know not why, but my suspicions were renewed with fresh violence, and I very seldom left my apartment. However, sometimes in the evening, I went into a small belvéder at the very top of the house, a kind of very high terrace, surrounded by a light iron rail high enough to rest upon, and upon which I usually leaned my arms to contemplate from a distance the melancholy horizon which a great city presents during the night; and there I sometimes passed hours in deep reverie. One evening, Providence willed it, that instead of leaning and pressing my weight at once upon it, as usual, I placed my hand only upon it. I had scarcely touched it, when, to my great alarm, it gave way and fell with a horrid crash!"

"Heaven!" exclaimed Bertha.

"The height was so great that the iron grating was broken into fragments when it fell on the stones."

"What an atrocious combination!" said Pierre Raimond, raising his hands to heaven.

"My death had been inevitable if I had leaned on this balustrade. Whom could I accuse if not Paula? No one had any interest in my death! Ignorant that a failure had carried off nearly all my fortune, she no doubt remembered that in happier days I had settled the whole of my property upon her. This idea had never occurred to me as long as my love lasted. It has been impossible for me to suspect those I love of infamy. I might, perhaps, have believed my wife capable of obeying an impulse of insensate hatred, but not of acting on so base and odious a calculation. However, my love once extinct before the evidence of so murderous an attempt, I did not hesitate at any supposition; only to avoid such sad scandal, I contented myself with declaring to Paula that she must instantly quit the city we inhabited, that I never would see her again, but leave her to her own remorse. Why need I say more? why should I rouse your indignation by alluding to the audacity with which my wife braved my reproaches, the horrible hypocrisy with which she affected to attribute them to the derangement of my senses? Such effrontery revolted me—I left her. From this moment my life has been miserable, but, at least, I have been released from horrible apprehensions.

"Some time after, I met with you," said De Hansfeld, extending his hand to Pierre Raimond; "you spoke of a lucky star. You are right, mine guided me upon your path; before I was so fortunate as to save your life, I was alone, dejected, and suffering under the blow of the bitterest remembrances; all has now changed, and I have found in you a friend; my chagrins are passed, and if I could rely on the permanence of our intimacy, I never could hope for greater happiness!"

"And why should our intimacy ever fail you? The charm of friendship with honest folk is in its certainty; who can come between us and our amity? Is it not based on services rendered—reciprocity of services? Is it not equally dear to my daughter, you, and me? And then, indeed, the sad reasons which make us find in our intimacy a kind of refuge against cruel thoughts will always exist: for you, they are your wife's crimes; for Bertha, the cruel conduct of her husband; for me, the resentment of my child's wrongs."

"You are right—we have nothing to fear for the future."

"How you must have suffered, M. Arnold!" said Bertha, sorrowfully.

"If you have evinced any weakness," added Pierre Raimond, "your conduct has been admirable for its mildness. It is the property of a mind replete with delicacy and elevation to impose on itself the cruellest tortures of doubt rather than risk a reproach, terrible—very terrible—if, contrary to all probability, your wife had been innocent. This long recital of your misfortunes gives me fresh proof of the goodness of your heart; and as one has always the defects of one's qualities, I see, even in the kind of weakness you may be reproached with, evidence of the most exquisite delicacy."

"You are too indulgent, my friend."

"I am just, and as little of a flatterer as Michael Angelo—am I not?" added the old man, with a hearty laugh.

"This is my hour for lessons," said Bertha; "this sorrowful confidence has finished at the right time—it has quite saddened me. Oh! M. Arnold, what sufferings! You ought to have a great deal of happiness to make you forget them!"

At this moment two of Bertha's young pupils entered and broke off the conversation.

De Hansfeld left Pierre Raimond and his daughter, somewhat consoled by the confession he had made, but still regretting the incognito he kept with them.

More than ever desirous of sending his wife away the next day, De Hansfeld returned to the Hôtel Lambert.

CHAPTER XXXI

THREATS

Madame de Hansfeld was in a dire perplexity. Her husband had insisted that she should set out next day for Germany, and it was therefore absolutely necessary for her to renounce M. de Morville, necessarily detained at Paris by the failing health of his mother.

Paula's estrangement from the prince had become aversion—profound hatred; and she thought the feeling almost excusable in consequence of the whims and harsh proceedings of her husband. The last blow he inflicted upon her was most distressing of all—to force her to leave Paris at the very moment when her passion for De Morville, so long hidden, so long struggled with, was becoming as propitious as she could have hoped for.

When Iris disclosed to her mistress that the prince very often went to Pierre Raimond's under a feigned name, in order to meet Madame de Brévannes, she had greatly excited Paula's ire against Bertha, as she felt assured that it was in order to keep up the incognito that favoured his love the more easily that the prince insisted on her quitting Paris.

After deep reflection, Paula believed that she had discovered a chance of effectual refusal to depart, even in the very passion of her husband for Madame de Brévannes.

In spite of the prince's order, Madame de Hansfeld had not announced her intended departure to any person, nor had she made any preparation for the journey, hoping that, perchance, her husband would renounce his first determination. As to his threats of revealing his wife's crimes, and abandoning her to the justice of society, Paula had only considered that as a further proof of Arnold's aberration of mind.

Until now, the different attacks of what she called the derangement of De Hansfeld had inspired her with as much commiseration as alarm. But in the last conversation the prince had behaved so harshly, so unjustly, and she felt that she was so cruelly sacrificed to his affection for Bertha, that, wounded in her most sensitive part—her love for De Morville,—Paula divided her hatred between her husband and Madame de Brévannes.

Such were Madame de Hansfeld's reflections when the prince entered her apartment, having just quitted Pierre Raimond. His demeanour was even more firm, more imperious than on the preceding evening.

"It appears, madame, that you are not hurrying yourself in your preparations for departure," he observed dryly; "but as you will not visit or receive company at the Château de Hansfeld, whither I send you, you have no great need of much preparation of toilette. You may take your diamonds, I relinquish them to you. Frantz, who will have charge of you to Germany, is incorruptible, and my only hesitation in leaving you your jewels was the apprehension that you might bribe your guide by their means."

Madame de Hansfeld interrupted her husband.

"I thank you, sir, for affording me the opportunity of returning these ornaments to you and rising from her chair she went towards a secrétaire, whence she took a large casket, which she handed to the prince.

"In other days I accepted these presents, but for a long time I have desired to restore them into your hands."

"Be it so!" said the prince, taking them with indifference; "the most affectionate tenderness, the most devoted love, have been unavailing with you, my generosity therefore must have been powerless. It is true," he added, with a smile of crushing contempt, "I had by a settlement assigned the larger portion of my property to you; and, after my decease, you would have inherited all—these jewels inclusive."

"Sir?"

"Only as you have appeared somewhat in a hurry to enjoy these advantages, I have found means to realise a portion of my fortune which has neutralised my previous settlement. I tell you this, in order to convince you that should I die to-morrow, your interested hopes will be frustrated. Perhaps I should have told you this earlier, and it might have spared you some rather hazardous experiments, which your ardent desire to be a widow explains, but by no means excuses," added De Hansfeld, with cutting irony.

These cruel words made a strange impression on Madame de Hansfeld, perfectly indifferent to the reproaches they comprised, and which she did not comprehend, for she did not in any way deserve them; she was only struck with their injustice and cruelty.

Had De Hansfeld died at that moment at her feet, she would have been far from regretting it, for at that instant she recollected what De Morville had written to her, "My love will be always unpropitious, since I cannot aspire to your hand."

But the princess was soon ashamed and horrified at her thought, or, rather, her atrocious wish, and replied coldly to her husband,—

"I do not desire to comprehend the sense of your words, monsieur, it is as odious as it is absurd. As to the question of interest, you know it was against my wish that you made so large a settlement on me, and it is only exceedingly natural that you should alter your mind at such an arrangement."

"As much hypocrisy in language, as audacity in the most criminal actions!" said the prince, in a low voice, and as if speaking to himself; "this it is that confounds my reason, and makes me always doubt this woman's crimes. Fortunately, at this moment she is completely unmasked, for my fatal love is utterly extinct."

Then, addressing Paula, he said aloud,—

"I come, madame, to desire you to make every hasty preparation for your departure. You must leave Paris before to-morrow evening!"

"Sir, I will not quit Paris!"

"Then, madame, you prefer that I should speak out?"

"You have used that threat very frequently, sir. For the love of Heaven speak plainly, and I shall then know what you have to reproach me with."

"You rely too much on the respect I have for my name and my dread of a public scandal. Take care, and do not drive me to extremities. Be advised—go—depart!"

"To speak plainly, sir, I am not your dupe; you wish to alarm me—compel me to leave Paris—and wherefore? in order that your departure may also be supposed to be taken also, and that you may thus more easily preserve your incognito."

"What mean you, madame?"

"And that you may, thanks to this incognito, be favourably received by Pierre Raimond, the father of Madame de Brévannes."

"Madame, take care!"

"Of Madame de Brévannes, of whom you are enamoured, and whom you so often meet at her father's house."

At these words the prince remained struck with amaze, his pale face became purple, and after a moment's silence he exclaimed,—

"Not another word, madame—not another word!"

"You love this woman," added Madame de Hansfeld.

"Not another word, I say, madame!"

"And she gives you rendezvous at her father's house. It's rather a sudden affair," added Madame de Hansfeld, with irony.

"You are unworthy even to utter the name of such an angel!" cried the prince.

"Really! Well, then, I am somewhat curious to know what the husband of this angel will think of your interview with his wife?"

"Do you dare?"

"Particularly when he learns that you introduced yourself to Pierre Raimond under an assumed name!"

"Are you thus resolved to drive me mad?" exclaimed the prince, passionately. "You talk of derangement, but it is you who are deranged, wretched woman, when you thus sport with your fate."

"The future will prove whether you or I am deranged, sir. I have been long accustomed to the wanderings of your reason; and I do not know if at this moment you are in your senses. But, however that may be, impress on your memory this—if you persist in making me quit Paris, I will disclose every thing to M. de Brévannes."

"Silence, madame, silence!"

"Be it so; I will be silent: but you know my conditions."

"Conditions to me! dare you impose any?"

"I dare; for I wish to believe that, setting aside your monomania of addressing to me such incomprehensible reproaches, you are a man of good sense. We have reasons for mutually considering each other on certain points. Your reason is not very sound; I could thus have you placed under the protection of the laws, but it would be repugnant to my feelings to draw public attention towards you by a process which would rip up all the secrets of your household to the eyes of malignant curiosity. You must fear on your side that M. de Brévannes may learn that you are paying attentions to his wife. So let us remain as we are; I have no pretension to your heart; mine has never been yours—let us then act as free persons. If it is necessary for you to pretend absence, I will lend myself to the feint, and say you have quitted Paris. All I ask in return, sir, is permission to remain where I am for some time, and my desire is not, I think, exorbitant."

M. de Hansfeld was amazed at Paula's assurance. Unfortunately for him, she possessed a secret which he trembled to have noised abroad. This consideration, more than the fear of the scandal of any processes, operated in placing him in his wife's power.

It is impossible to depict his regrets at hearing that the princess was instructed as to the visits he paid to the engraver. Bertha's reputation was thus at the mercy of a woman who inspired Arnold with as much surprise as horror.

The conduct of Madame de Brévannes was unquestionably irreproachable, but the least suspicion—the discovery of the prince's real name—would be sufficient to excite Pierre Raimond's mistrust, and prevent him from again receiving Arnold Schneider; with one word, the princess could conjure up this storm. We may imagine the prince's anger when he found himself under Paula's domination.

She triumphed; she felt all the force of her position. To gain time, remain in Paris, see De Morville sometimes, write to him frequently, after having perhaps owned that he was not deceived as to the author of the mysterious correspondence to which we have referred. Such was the most ardent desire of Madame de Hansfeld, and, thanks to the secret she possessed, she hoped fully to realise this wish.

She profited by the sort of stupor of her husband to add,—

"It is, then, understood, sir, you take your jewels. I give up all the settlement you had made upon me—my only wish being to live as separate and distinct from you as possible; and even more so if possible than during the past. This is the price of my silence. You came here, sir, with threats on your lips, but the characters are changed."

"No!" exclaimed the prince, in a burst of violent indignation, "no, the woman who has thrice attempted my life dares not use such language, and threaten me—me, whose forbearance has been so great,—me, who, from a latent feeling of absurd consideration, have always recoiled from the terrible accusation which might compel you to confront a scaffold!"

Madame de Hansfeld looked at her husband with amazement.

"Sir, take care, your brain wanders!"

"I tell you that three times you have attempted to assassinate me, madame!"

"I?"

"You, madame! You remember the pavilion at Trieste; the lone auberge, on the road to Geneva; and then the last attempt that was made but two days ago against my life?"

"I—I? Why, it is impossible that you can say this seriously, sir?" exclaimed Paula. "For what motive should I commit so black a crime? It is horrible! for surely nothing in my conduct could have authorised such terrible suspicions."

"Suspicions, madame? say, rather certainties."

"Certainties? and of what nature—on what proofs do you base them? But I am wrong to discuss with you thus,—it is really derangement."

"Dare you to allude to my derangement! why it was my forbearance that was my sole derangement, madame; I could not isolate myself in distrust—surround myself with precautions without explaining the cause, and that explanation would have ruined you."

Madame de Hansfeld looked at her husband with increasing surprise, she could not credit, she could not believe what she had heard.

"Now, sir," she said, recalling her recollection, "all your strange caprices, your singular bursts are explained. This odious accusation has, at least, the merit of being precise, and my justification will be as easy."

"You pretend then——"

"To justify myself? Yes, most assuredly, and I request that you will listen to me."

"Your audacity confounds me. There was a time when I might have been your dupe—but now——"

"Now, sir, you will be pleased to tell me the grounds on which your accusation rests; what are your proofs? I will refute them one by one. There is no logic so potent as truth."

M. de Hansfeld, confounded at this assurance, looked in his turn at his wife with unfeigned and vast astonishment. She was so calm, she seemed to anticipate with so much innocence those explanations, which a guilty conscience would have dreaded, that his doubts all returned more strongly than ever.

"What, madame!" exclaimed he, "do you deny that one evening at Trieste, after a painful dispute, you endeavoured to get rid of me by throwing into a cup of milk, which had been brought for me, a poison so violent, that a spaniel, to which I was greatly attached, died the moment after he had drunk it?"

"I—I poison?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, with horror, "why, who could—great God!—have inspired you with such suspicions? How have I deserved them? How, since then do you suppose me capable of such a crime?"

"That crime was not the only one, madame!"

"If the others have no better proofs than that, sir, God will demand at your hands an account of these terrible accusations."

After a silent reflection for some moments, Paula resumed,—

"Yes, yes, now I remember the circumstance to which you allude, and also another which will entirely exculpate me, and the explanation of which you may ask of Frantz, in whom I know you have entire confidence. I perfectly well remember that after our painful discussion, when you left the pavilion, the tea had not been brought in."

"True; but it was on my return to the kiosk that I found the cup which no doubt you had poured out for me in my absence."

"You mistake. Fortunately the minutest details of that evening are before my eyes at this moment. I left the pavilion after you, and as I was about to descend the steps Frantz was bringing in the tea, which he put down on a table before me, and then followed me to the house, where I kept him occupied for the rest of the evening. Ask him instantly, and may I die this moment if he will contradict a word that I say!"

"Who, then, could have put the poison in the cup?"

"I only profess to clear myself, and riot to develope this horrid mystery."

"You will be exculpated unquestionably should Frantz confirm what you have said. But the attempt at assassination at the lone inn on the road to Geneva?"

"After your first suspicion," said Paula, smiling bitterly, "this does not surprise me. Still, you must remember that I was sleeping soundly, and that you had some trouble to arouse me from my slumber. As to the attentions I paid you after this terrible event, I did not suppose you suspected them!"

"But the stiletto which belonged to you, and which was the weapon that committed the crime?"

"I cannot explain this strange incident any more than you can. This very valuable dagger, and till then very inoffensive one, had served me as a paper-knife, and I always shut it up in my writing-case.—But, now I think of it, Frantz can again speak in my favour. He kept the keys of the boxes of our travelling carriage, and had himself packed up this writing-box, which he did not open until we reached Geneva. When we left Trieste, he had arranged it with Iris. Inquire of them both whether the dagger was packed with the other things, and they will, I am certain, confirm what I say. During the journey I never left you for a moment, and as Frantz always carried the keys of the carriage about him, how could I obtain possession of this dagger?"

What Madame de Hansfeld said, seemed so perfectly probable that the prince fancied he again heard the secret voice which had so often repeated, "Paula is not guilty!"

The prince felt his suspicions almost entirely dissipated; and although he no longer loved Paula, he had so generous a temper that he regretted most bitterly ever having accused Madame de Hansfeld, and already imposed on himself the obligation of making her a complete and solemn reparation if she justified herself entirely.

"You have, sir," she said, "a final charge to make against me. Will you be so kind as to produce it? Let us, I beseech you, terminate this conversation, which, as you may well believe, is most painful to me!"

"The day before yesterday, madame, the iron balustrade which environs the small terrace of the belvéder of the hotel was cut away at the bottom and had no support. Instead of leaning upon it at once, as is my usual custom, I mechanically placed my hand upon it, and it fell instantly to the earth!"

"Horrible!" exclaimed Paula, "and you really believed—but why should you not? this crime was not more horrid than the others. I shall have more difficulty to exculpate myself from this accusation: all I can tell you is that the day before yesterday I went out at eleven o'clock to go and breakfast with Madame de Lormoy; I returned at four o'clock, and your servant must have seen that from this hour until the moment when I went to the Opera, I did not leave my own room. I must have crossed the court-yard in order to go into your gallery, which is the only means of communication with the staircase of the belvéder, and no one enters your apartments but Frantz: interrogate him, and perhaps you may learn something from him; as for me, I have not another word to add on this subject."

After a few moments' silence, M. de Hansfeld rose and said to his wife,—

"What you tell me, madame, makes me alter my determination. Your departure, which I desired, I desire no longer; when I have spoken with Frantz, I will see you again."

And the prince quitted his wife with an air of the deepest dejection.

CHAPTER XXXII

REFLECTIONS

Wholly absorbed by the surprise and terror awakened by the accusations of her husband, Madame de Hansfeld, during the late conversation between herself and the prince, had thought only of clearing herself from the foul charges brought against her; but, once left to her own thoughts, she began deeply and profoundly to reflect upon the events of the last hour. Her first feeling was that of strong indignation against the man who could for one instant have believed her capable of crimes so heinous; but this first burst of displeasure soon gave place to a grateful sense of the generous forbearance which had so carefully concealed her supposed guilt from the world. A mind less noble and considerate would have blazoned forth those suspicions, to which a train of singular circumstances lent so apparent a reality. And then, by a sudden change of ideas, the words of M. de Morville rose to her recollection, as though for ever and indelibly impressed on her brain,—

"There can be nothing propitious in my love for you, until I dare hope to obtain your hand."

In the present state of Madame de Hansfeld's mind, these words appeared to have a deep, strange, and thrilling connexion with the terrible accusations of her husband.

Supposing that the mysterious attempts upon the prince's life had succeeded, she would then have been free—free to bestow herself upon the object of her ardent passion, and by so doing secure his happiness as well as her own.

As yet the heart of Paula had cherished no sentiment unworthy her position as a wife; but how frequently have the purest-minded, the noblest-hearted persons allowed themselves to be tempted and beguiled, for a short period, by thoughts which, without assuming the form of desires, but merely presenting themselves as suppositions, would, if realised, have assuredly produced the blackest crimes!

How many gentle and resigned females, constrained to bear the most cruel and brutal usage from husbands, who might well be won to better conduct by the angelic patience of their heart-broken partners, have involuntarily exclaimed, "Ah me! why did I not choose a generous, noble-minded man, instead of such a tyrant as fate has given me?" There is nothing murderous in this perhaps involuntary regret, which expresses neither the hope nor expectation of seeing an end to the daily tortures the unoffending victim endures; and yet in this simple sentiment is contained the germ of passions that might lead to crime—even to murder itself; it is the natural instinct of self-preservation, aware of imminent danger from which it seeks the means of escaping.

With many, whose trials and sufferings have called forth the bitter exclamation before alluded to, the burst of feeling ends there; they submit to their destiny, which henceforth presents one long unbroken path of sighs and tears.

While others, endowed either with more acute and susceptible feelings, or a smaller share of resignation, relieve their oppressed hearts by crying, "Oh were I but free from my chains and him who thus enforces my slavery!"

While some, more desperate or more outraged, will call upon the friendly aid of death to release them from the thraldom of their tyrant!

Let the consequences—the full import of these several laments be fully analysed—let these wishes be thoroughly examined, and it will invariably be found that, in a smaller or lesser degree, they all point to murder!

And what was it but a stern and fatal necessity which led Macbeth on, step by step, to commit the gradual increase of crime to which he at last arrived?

And how many well-meaning persons have looked back, with astonishment and fright, at the numerous guilty acts they have committed under the influence of what at first appeared to them a right and justifiable motive!

As regarded Paula, her preponderating idea, as she reviewed her recent conference with M. de Hansfeld, was, "The husband to whom I am bound for life, whom I love not, and whom I married merely to escape importunity, whose opinion of me is so infamous, that he believes me capable of thrice endeavouring to murder him, has been at the very extremest point of danger; and by his death I should have been at liberty to reward the affection of one who adores me with an ardour equal to that I feel for him!"

In vain did Paula, who foresaw the dangerous consequences of indulging in this reflection, attempt to fly from its fatal influence; continually, and almost unconsciously, did she return to its fresh consideration, after the manner in which persons, wandering in the mazes of a labyrinth, find themselves perpetually and unwillingly back to the point from which they at first started.

To this idea succeeded a second, equally important to develope. The individual who had pursued M. de Hansfeld with such determined ferocity of purpose must, necessarily, be well acquainted with the arrangements of the family,—was, probably, one of its members. What could be the exciting cause for desiring the death of the prince?

After several moments of deep meditation, a fresh light seemed to break upon Paula. Recalling certain mysterious words spoken by Iris; the blind, almost savage attachment of the mulatto towards herself; the hatred she had occasionally manifested towards the prince when she (Paula) had expressed her regrets at having espoused so capricious and eccentric a person as himself,—all, all convinced her, the more she reflected, that she had discovered the real author of the crime. Her first impulse was judicious. Terrified at the ferocious perseverance with which Iris had pursued her murderous intent, and much dreading that she would never pause till she had accomplished her fell design, she determined to question and circumvent her evil machinations.

An hour after the prince's departure, a summons from her mistress brought Iris into the apartment of the princess.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE INTERROGATORY

Madame de Hansfeld felt some hesitation as to the manner in which she should commence the conversation, with a view to arriving at the truth of what she desired to know: by expressing herself in terms of severity, however merited, she feared to alarm Iris, and thereby occasion an obstinate silence or absolute denial. At length she persuaded herself she had found the means of avoiding this difficulty.

"Iris," said she, dejectedly, as the Creole stood beside her, in prompt obedience to her summons,—"Iris, M. de Hansfeld has just left me. At length I have discovered the cause of all those eccentricities on his part, which made me fear his reason was affected."

"And what is that cause, godmother?"

"His life has been three times attempted."

"He fancies so, as he fancies many other things equally absurd and improbable."

"I tell you it is as I say; thrice has his life been in danger; I have irrefragable proofs of what I assert."

"And he knows the guilty person?"

"At least he believes he does."

"And who is this person?"

"Myself!"

"You?"

"So he thinks."

"And he has accused you of the fact; and threatened you?"

"He has."

"With what?"

"With being placed in the hands of justice,—dragged before the public tribunals."

"No matter; you are innocent."

"Still that does not diminish the disgrace of such a report, or the pain and humiliation of being suspected of such a crime."

"At least in danger, shame, or disgrace, your poor Iris can accompany you; she will never forsake you; at such a time her devotion and fidelity will be more than ever necessary to you."

This savage simplicity made Paula shudder, and opened her eyes to a part of the truth; redoubling, therefore, both her prudence and reserve, she extended her hand to Iris, saying,—

"Doubtless, as you say, at such a time your cares and attentions would be more than ever valuable and soothing to my feelings; still I should refuse them, out of regard for yourself."

"Godmother!"

"No temptation on earth should induce me to accept them."

"And you would reject my services out of regard for my welfare?"

"Decidedly; whatever may occur to me, I shall select Marianne or any other attendant to accompany me."

"And me? and me?"

"I should request the prince to send you back into Germany before the trial, and I feel quite assured he would not refuse to do so."

"But, godmother, you bewilder me! I cannot understand your motive in sending me away at a time when all others would fly from and abandon you."

"Because your attachment for me is so well known, that it might probably bring you under the suspicion of being my accomplice in those things of which, God knows, I am unjustly accused."

"Never mind my being considered your partner in guilt,—I care nothing for the opinion of the whole world, on the contrary, I should glory in having my name associated with yours, either in good or evil."

"Still, Iris, I should insist upon your departure. I will not add to the troubles which at present surround me, and to the still more formidable dangers which threaten me, the additional misery of seeing you wretched."

For an instant Iris reflected with deep earnestness, while her mistress watched her with close attention. At length the girl continued, in a cold and unnatural tone of voice,—

"Since the prince accuses you, godmother, I will go to him and tell him I am your confederate,—I shall not then be separated from you."

Paula shook with dread; she well knew that Iris was fully equal to putting this design into execution.

"Unhappy girl!" cried she, "do you not perceive that by styling yourself my accomplice you affirm my guilt; to accuse yourself is to accuse me also, and probably to lead me to a scaffold?"

"Be it so; I can then die with you."

"What mean you?" cried the princess, terrified at the triumphant look and almost fiendish determination imprinted on the features of Iris.

"I mean," replied the mulatto, with savage wildness, "that my position with you is at present a wretched one, godmother, and that the dearest wish of my heart is, to see you placed in such difficulties and misfortunes that my devotion to you shall be your only source of happiness, joy, or consolation; and I say again and again, that loving you with the intense adoration I do, I would rather a thousand times see you dead than indifferent to the passionate love I feel for you, whom I idolise as mother, sister, Deity! And I tell you also, that neither Raphael nor De Morville have ever done a thousandth part as much to merit your affection as I have done; and yet they have occupied, and will continue to occupy, your every thought, whilst I—I am but as nothing in your estimation; this is cruel, godmother—more than cruel—it is unjust and ungrateful."

"And how dare you presume thus to reproach one who has sheltered, protected, and loaded you with benefits? And how have you requited my constant kindness?"

"Since you ask me the question, godmother, I will answer it, and that, too, on the spot and without disguise, for we must fulfil our destinies. You inquire what I have done in requital of your bounty towards me? In the first place, I caused the death of Raphael by the hand of M. Charles de Brévannes. But let me previously——"

"Gracious God! do I hear aright? You—you effected the death of Raphael!—she terrifies me! Merciful heavens!"

"Yes I! but you know not Raphael's real character. Twenty times, on witnessing your tears and regrets, I have been on the point of saying to you, 'You have nothing to regret, Raphael was unworthy of you but I refrained; now you shall hear my reason for thinking so."

"Explain yourself, unhappy girl; what does all this mean? or is it after all nothing but a cruel jest?"

"No, no; Iris jests not where you are concerned. Listen to me; you may remember having left me at Venice, but you can never form an idea of what I suffered in consequence of this separation; you either did not perceive my grief, or you took no heed of it; you were even displeased at the importunity with which I implored to be permitted to accompany you. God knows you would have acted more generously towards me had you allowed me to perish in the streets, than first to excite my gratitude and afterwards to find the manifestations of that overwhelming feeling troublesome and offensive."

"The wretched creature is mad! What has your gratitude to me to do with Raphael?"

"As I before said, you left me at Venice, to my extreme grief and misery. I could not, however, endure my existence without receiving further information respecting you than was contained in an occasional cold formal letter written by you to me; by force of prayers and supplications I prevailed on Inès, your waiting-maid, to send me a minute detail of all your proceedings. You would scarcely credit the perseverance, promises, and temptations, I was compelled to employ ere I could win over this cold and inanimate person to enter into my wishes sufficiently to undertake to write me a regular account of every day's transactions. You may judge a little by that how absorbing and all-engrossing was my attachment for you!"

"Alas!" said Paula, "I know not whether to execrate, pity, or admire your devotion."

"I probably deserve at once pity, hatred, and admiration," pursued Iris, boldly. "But to proceed. From Inès I learnt the ardent court paid you by Charles de Brévannes, and that public report asserted (though falsely) that you repaid his love. Your mind and heart were, however, entirely engrossed by Raphael, of whom you daily conversed with your aunt—and in Inès's presence—but during this time of fascination and deep passion on your part Raphael was grossly deceiving you."

"Raphael!—Raphael deceive me!—Oh, no! no! 'tis another vile falsehood on your part, invented for some base purpose!"

"Nay, then, you shall have the proof of his perfidy! His motive in visiting Venice was to release himself from his vows to you, he having pledged his faith to a young Greek of Zante, named Cora. Oh, I will prove this to you ere I have done! Well, he was fully aware of the confidence you reposed in me, and he gave me credit for a degree of influence over your mind which I was far from possessing—but listen to my tale: it was to me, then, he first whispered the history of his capricious falsehood, beseeching of me to communicate it to you with all possible care and skilfulness; from my lips he fancied the tidings of his perjury would sound less cruel!"

"But his duel with De Brévannes?"

"You shall know all about that directly; let me proceed. As I listened to the false and cowardly excuses of Raphael, a feeling of mingled rage and delight took possession of my soul."

"Delight?"

"Yes, even so!—for to me those whom you love are almost equally hateful with those who I am aware are your enemies."

"Surely the fiend himself must have taken possession of your bosom. Oh! accursed was the day in which my eyes first beheld you!"

"That day is probably as accursed for me as for you! When I learnt the treachery of Raphael, I felt, as I told you, both rejoiced and incensed; but my first impulse was to avenge the slight shewn to you, and without an instant's delay, I proceeded to lay Raphael's vanity low, by ridiculing his idea of breaking the news he considered so afflicting, to you, by degrees, and assuring him you had long since imitated, if not anticipated, his inconstancy, by becoming, almost upon your first arrival at Florence, the acknowledged mistress of Charles de Brévannes."

"Yet Inès herself had written you to the contrary!"

"True; still she asserted that appearances generally were against you, and that public opinion unanimously pronounced you guilty of the charge. I only intended to inflict a severe wound on the self-love and vanity of Raphael. My expectations were, however, exceeded. Such is the overweening pride of man, that even this perfidious traitor, who had so unhesitatingly sacrificed you to his capricious fancy, became perfectly furious at the idea of having been himself deceived. I applied fresh irritation to his mortified feelings, and worked upon his offended vanity till I wrung from his outraged self-importance that which love would never have urged him to. He departed with Osorio for Venice, breathing threats of revenge and fury for your feigned falsehood! And the very being who, believing himself assured of your heart's warmest affections, had but a short time since ruthlessly and pitilessly trampled your love beneath his feet, and remorselessly left you to pine and die in anguish at his desertion, became all at once influenced by his former wild and ungovernable passion, directly he found himself on the point of losing you, and being rejected for another! You know the rest, and how deeply his error was increased by the infamous intervention of De Brévannes, who slew him not, until he had first persuaded him of your infidelity."

"Heavenly Father! can such crimes be?"

"I told you I would substantiate the perjury of Raphael. In the first place, you will be abundantly convinced by the reading of a letter addressed to yourself, and consigned by Raphael to my care when at Venice, in which he openly speaks of his approaching marriage with the young Greek. After the duel, Osorio wrote to me, begging I would suppress the letter altogether, no doubt wishing to avenge his friend by throwing the whole blame on your shoulders, by making it appear that you alone had broken your faith, while Raphael had never departed from the affection breathed forth in his last billet to you."

"But wherefore did you abandon me to all the weight of my remorse? Why, when you saw me so long remain faithful to the memory of one who had so grossly deceived me, did you not tell me I mourned an unworthy object?"

"Why did I not tell you this?"

"Yes; I asked wherefore did you not disclose the truth to me?"

"Because I would rather your affections were engrossed by the dead than the living."

"And when I spoke before you of my reluctance to return the love of M. de Morville upon the plea of my scruples at proving false to the memory of Raphael, why did you not dissipate my regrets by a single word?"

"I tell you, as I said before, because I had much rather see your heart occupied by the dead than the living; and also because I trusted and hoped that the remembrance of Raphael would effectually exclude M. de Morville from any place in your affections."

"Then you hate M. de Morville, also?" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, recoiling with horror from the infernal genius which seemed to prompt so young a girl to imagine and execute all she desired to have done.

Instead of immediately replying to this inquiry, Iris remained for several minutes thoughtful and silent; then, with a gloomy and overcast air, she resumed,—