"Ah, madame, I repeat, I had suffered too much myself not to recognise the same sufferings in you by indescribable, yet manifest symptoms. With what eager curiosity did I strive to read your thoughts in your countenance! The part of the garden that you frequented most was separated from the rest by a gate which you opened or shut at pleasure. You alone could enter into this secluded alley. I ventured on a folly; each day I dropped at the foot of the seat where you were accustomed to repose, a sort of memento of the reflections which, as I believed, had agitated you on the previous evening. How shall I describe my suspense, my anguish, when I saw you first open my letter. Never shall I forget the expression of surprise you manifested after you had read it. Forgive these foolish recollections of the past; but I did not think you were offended, for, instead of destroying the letter, you retained it. One day your agitation was so great, that you did not perceive the letter—you seemed a prey to the most violent anger and grief. My own experience told me that your sorrow was not occasioned by any fresh event. It seemed to me rather some unhappy occurrence had been recalled to you. It was under this belief that I again wrote to you, and on the morrow, whilst you perused my letter, you wept."

Madame de Hansfeld made an impatient gesture.

"Oh, madame, do not blame me for dwelling on these recollections, they are my sole consolation. Thus encouraged by the anxiety with which you seemed to look for my letters, I wrote daily. Unhappily, my mother's illness assumed a threatening form; I never quitted her bedside for two nights—I thought but of her. The crisis was passed, she was out of danger. My first thought was then to hasten to my window. Soon after you entered the walk. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you go quickly to the marble seat: there was no letter there. An exclamation of impatience escaped you. I dared to interpret it favourably."

M. de Morville glanced anxiously at Madame de Hansfeld. Her eyes were cast down, her arms folded, her face was devoid of expression. In thus speaking, in thus informing Madame de Hansfeld of the facts that he had discovered, De Morville cut off all hope of retreat; but he never expected to see the princess more, else he would not have been guilty of such a display of bad generalship.

"What can I say, madame?" replied he; "for two whole months I had the happiness of seeing you: every day when I learned you were on the point of quitting the house adjoining ours to inhabit the Hôtel Lambert, in the Isle St. Louis, oh, how sincere, how terrible was my emotion! Perchance it was only then that I really felt how much I loved you."

At these last words, uttered by M. de Morville in a tone of deep emotion, Madame de Hansfeld raised her head suddenly; her cheeks became deeply tinged, as she replied, with a satirical smile, "This strange confession, sir, is doubtless connected with the secret you are about to reveal to me."

"Yes, madame."

"I am all attention.

"Up to the period of your quitting the adjoining house to ours, I had often met you at the houses of my friends, and I had never made any effort to be presented to you. I found an indefinable charm in the mystery that enshrouded my love. I was utterly unknown to you—I who knew you so well—I who had been the unseen spectator of all the emotion and the sorrow you had suffered; and then to talk to you on those trivial and commonplace subjects that form every-day conversation, what pleasure would that have afforded me, after the hours, the days I have passed in silent and deep admiration! But, when your departure deprived me of this pleasure, then I acknowledged the value of those meetings that I had previously disdained, I determined to be introduced to you. You were on intimate terms with Madame de Lormoy, my aunt, who has the highest regard for you. As, in common with the rest of the world, she was ignorant of the strange chance that had linked me to you, I prayed her to present me to you. Unfortunately, the day after she had agreed to comply with my wishes, a revelation was made to me, that instead of seeking, I felt it my duty to avoid your society. Had it not been on account of my mother's health, I should have left Paris, in order to avoid you, and thus furnishing fresh fuel to my unhappy passion; for, know, madame, that if your indifference grieves me, your love would drive me to despair. You seem surprised—you do not understand me. Suppose then—and pardon the folly of the supposition—that you loved me as passionately as I love you, I should be the most miserable of men, for I could not return your affection without inflicting a death-blow on my mother, without trampling under foot the most sacred duty, the most solemn oath, without becoming forsworn and criminal."

"Criminal!" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, rising from her seat, her features convulsed by fear and grief. This involuntary cry of the princess was, in fact, an avowal that betrayed her affection for De Morville, hitherto so carefully concealed.

Had he been really indifferent to Madame de Hansfeld, would she have manifested this despair, this emotion?—No! but she saw an impassable barrier arise between herself and M. de Morville. Had he not said, "Did you love me, I should be the most miserable of men, for I could not return your affection without becoming perjured, without inflicting a death-blow on my mother?"

De Morville was proverbial for his love of truth and his affection for his mother.

Madame de Hansfeld understood his meaning perfectly. A look of joy irradiated De Morville's face; he fancied he was loved in return, but that first transport past, he shuddered as he thought of the abyss of misery and sorrow which the involuntary exclamation of Madame de Hansfeld opened before him.

The princess was too much mistress of herself not to subdue instantly all traces of her transient emotion. Hoping to deceive De Morville, she said with an air of gaiety that quite confused him,—

"You must allow, sir, that my surprise, I may say, my terror, was tolerably natural on hearing you declare that my love would plunge you into crime and perjury. Good heavens! I shudder; yet what happiness must it be, then, for you to hear that I am utterly indifferent to your mad passion? On my word, sir, you are really too fortunate, henceforth you have every thing to preserve you from the temptation of being in love with me; for you have not only the knowledge of my indifference, but also the strongest motives that can decide a man. Only permit me to observe that among the obstacles that seemed to cross your love for me so insurmountably, you might have reckoned my marriage with the Prince de Hansfeld; allow me to remind you of that obstacle, and to say that in my eyes that is the most serious impediment of all. And now let me speak of your letters which I have received, because I could not help it; and which I read, and sometimes preserved, because a series of thoughts admirably worded, and supposed to be those of some ideal creature, could not be called a correspondence. You have too much real merit, sir," continued the princess, "to be vain; I have, therefore, no dread of wounding your pride as an author, by telling you, that if I read these your productions with curiosity and sometimes with a strong emotion, it was partly because of the mystery that enshrouded you, and partly because chance sometimes sent you thoughts so poetical and touching as to call forth my tears; for I am so unfortunate, or rather fortunate, as to shed tears during the perusal of any romance in the least degree impassioned and affecting."

"Ah, madame, this satire is too cruel."

"I could wish, sir, that this interview, began under such gloomy auspices, should at least end gaily; for, after all, are we not at a masked ball at the Opera? Besides, why should we part in sadness? I believed that you were acquainted with an annoying secret; it is not the case, my fears were futile and are forgotten. I have the recollection of my duty, to defend me from your declarations, as well as my utter indifference as to the revelation that has been made to you. Our position is perfectly clear, what more could any one desire? Farewell, this interview convinces me, that your high reputation is well merited, I know that I need not recommend you to secrecy on the subject of a step that would painfully compromise me. For precaution's sake, I will leave the box first; you will have the kindness to wait here a short time."

As she spoke, Madame de Hansfeld rose, replaced her mask, and opened the door of the box.

"Ah, madame," exclaimed De Morville, "for Heaven's sake one word more."

Madame de Hansfeld made a gesture so proud, so dignified, that De Morville no longer endeavoured to prolong the interview.

The princess opened the door and disappeared; in a few minutes De Morville followed her example.

As he passed before the chest we have previously spoken of, he found a crowd, so great, that whilst waiting to pass it he had time to overhear these words:—

"My stars! Brévannes," said the malicious domino, who had been sitting all the evening on the chest, "what a sensation you produce! what a scream the domino with a knot of blue and yellow ribands gave when she passed you!"

"I don't claim the merit," replied M. de Brévannes, gaily; "I am no more responsible for the domino's scream than Fierval or Heronville."

"The domino could not have been more alarmed if she had seen the devil himself," said M. de Fierval.

M. de Morville listened with the greatest attention when he found that the princess formed the subject of their conversation (she wore, as our readers will recollect, a knot of blue and yellow ribands, which she had not removed; De Morville had had the precaution to take off his).

"It was one of your victims, perhaps," said Fierval, jestingly, to M. de Brévannes.

"The unhappy creature has suddenly recognised him," said another.

"Faithless man!"

"Perfidious monster!"

"Who knows?" said the domino, "perhaps it was your wife, Brévannes!"

A shout of laughter followed this pleasantry.

"That would be a capital joke. You have, no doubt, concealed from her that you were coming here, she has believed you in her candour, and in the same spirit come here herself."

Brévannes bore admirably all the jests levelled at him, with the exception of those relating to his wife. He could not conceal his vexation, and endeavoured to change the conversation by saying to M. de Fierval,—

"It's getting late, Fierval, let us go to supper."

"O the wretch!" said the domino; "it is more than probable, that he will get up a terrible scene with his wife on his return home, and all in consequence of the silly remark of a domino,—poor Bertha!"

"The best proof that I am not jealous, and that I bear no malice," said M. de Brévannes, with an air of forced gaiety, "is that I shall be delighted if you will come and sup with us."

"No, I am too amiable to do that; I could not refrain from telling you some unpalatable truths, and they would be unpleasant for the rest of the company. I might, perhaps, make amends to them by shewing you in a new and very disagreeable light, but it does not suit me yet to execute you publicly. If you are not discreet—if you come here again—I shall find you some of these Saturdays, and then mind, for this chest shall serve for the tribunal, and you shall hear some strange things if you dare come, but you will not venture."

"He? Brévannes, not dare?" said Fierval, laughing.

"You evidently don't know him, charming mask."

"You don't know that he can do all he chooses," said another.

"Don't back out of it, Brévannes, and mind you come next Saturday," said Fierval, "discreet or not."

"I have nothing better to say to you, engaging mask," replied Brévannes, "these gentlemen are my witnesses. On Saturday, if you defy me, I accept the challenge."

"Saturday, be it then," said the domino, "but I warn you again, that you occasioned the scream of surprise, almost of horror, that the domino with the blue and yellow ribands uttered."

"Nonsense! you are mad. If you won't come with us, I must leave you."

"Very well; but mind, Saturday."

"Saturday," repeated Brévannes as he walked away. M. de Morville had attentively listened to this conversation, and had not the smallest doubt in his mind but that the sight of Brévannes had occasioned the princess's alarm.

He recollected that during the interview he had just had with Madame de Hansfeld she had alluded to M. de Brévannes as one of the two persons who possessed the secret, whose disclosure she so much dreaded.

What circumstances could have brought M. de Brévannes and Madame de Hansfeld together?

Where had he known her? What was the secret which he possessed?

Was the cool raillery of Madame de Hansfeld at the termination of their conversation real or assumed?

These were the questions which passed through De Morville's mind as he returned sorrowfully home.

CHAPTER VI

M. DE BRÉVANNES

A few words are now necessary with respect to M. de Brévannes, an important actor in this history.

M. de Brévannes' father was named Joseph Burdin: born at Lyons, he had come to seek his fortune at Paris under the Directory. By his management, perseverance, and fitness for business, he had, in a few years, realised, by contracts for the supply of the forces, one of those notorious fortunes so common at this period.

Become rich, the name of Burdin appeared vulgar to him, and he bought the estate of Brévannes, in Lorraine, called himself for some time Burdin de Brévannes, then sinking the Burdin, became Brévannes only. His wife, the daughter of a wealthy notary, who had ruined himself by hazardous speculations, died a short time before the Restoration (1815).

M. de Brévannes did not long survive her, and the guardianship of his son, Charles de Brévannes, was intrusted to one of his old associates. Either from negligence or want of principle, this man did not manage his ward's interests faithfully; so that when the young man came of age, in 1825, he only inherited about 40,000 livres (1600 l.) a-year.

M. de Brévannes, renewing his acquaintance with several of his college friends whom he met again in society, passed during several years a gay bachelor's life, without, however, running into any excess of extravagance—he was too selfish and calculating for that.

About the end of the year 1831 he married Bertha Raimond.

To explain this marriage it is necessary to sketch the character of M. de Brévannes. Badly brought up, and having received but the barren education of his college, nothing had softened or abated the innate violence of his temper; the main, leading, and integral characteristic of which was a remarkable degree of energy and hauteur, united to an invincible obstinacy of purpose.

To achieve his end, M. de Brévannes did not hesitate at any sacrifice, any excess, any obstacle.

What he desired, he sought to possess as much to satisfy his taste and caprice of the moment, as to satisfy the sort of tenacious pride which he had in succeeding, by good means or bad—at any cost, any risk—in every thing which he undertook.

M. de Brévannes pushed his economy to the bounds of avarice, his personal ease to selfishness, and his want of sympathy amounted to decided harshness. If he determined to surmount any obstacle, he became devoted, generous, delicate, if it served his purpose; but his aim once attained, these ephemeral and assumed qualities disappeared with the cause which had elicited them; and then his real character resumed its usual tone and course, and his evil inclinations found their compensation for a temporary restraint in increased violence.

Unfortunately, persons of this strong and deeply marked stamp too often prove that with them (as M. de Brévannes had said—to will is to be able to do) vouloir c'est pouvoir.

We will now add a word or two as to his marriage.

M. de Brévannes occupied the first floor of a house in Paris, which was his own property. Two new lodgers came to live in two small apartments on the fourth story,—they were Bertha Raimond and her father; the mother had been dead for a considerable period.

Pierre Raimond, a copper-plate engraver by profession, had so weakened his eyesight that he could at this period engrave nothing but music. Bertha, who was an admirable musician, gave lessons on the piano; and, thanks to these resources, the father and daughter lived almost in easy circumstances.

Bertha was remarkably handsome, and M. de Brévannes, who frequently met her in the house, was so much attracted by her, that, in his capacity of landlord, he introduced himself to Pierre Raimond.

Brévannes had a detestable idea of human kind, and he confidently trusted, by the use of cajolery, and some presents liberally and propitiously made, to triumph over the virtue of Bertha and the scruples of Pierre Raimond. He was deceived: and, paying the quarter's rent for his humble apartments, the engraver gave notice to quit to M. de Brévannes at the end of the ensuing three months, requesting him, at the same time, in very plain terms, to cease his calls, which had been but very few, however, up to that period.

M. de Brévannes was piqued at his failure; this unexpected resistance irritated his desires and wounded his pride, and his caprice became love, or, at least, had all its ardour and impatience.

Having contrived to obtain certain short conversations with Mademoiselle Raimond, either by following her into the streets when she left her home to give lessons, or meeting her at the residence of one of her pupils, M. de Brévannes contrived to maintain a correspondence with Bertha, who soon became much attached to him. He was young, witty, and had a good address—a face, if not handsome, yet manly and expressive. Bertha did not resist these attractions, but her love was as pure as her imagination, and M. de Brévannes' evil hopes were utterly frustrated. Confessing to him, unaffectedly, that she was not ashamed to disclose her love for him, Bertha added that he was too rich to marry her, and that, therefore, the communication between them must cease—vain as it was for him, and distressing for her.

The end of the quarter came, and Bertha and her father went to reside in one of the most lonely quarters of Paris, in the Rue Poultier, Ile Saint Louis.

This removal gave a fresh wound to the pride and feeling of M. de Brévannes. He discovered the abode of the young girl, pretended a long journey, and went secretly and took a lodging in the Ile Saint Louis, near the street in which Pierre Raimond resided.

The first time Bertha again met M. de Brévannes, she betrayed, by her emotion, the intensity of her sentiments towards him; concealing nothing from him,—neither the joy which his return occasioned to her, nor the cruel tears—yet dear as they were cruel—which she had shed during his absence.

In spite of these avowals M. de Brévannes was not the more happy. Seductive persuasion, stratagems, promises, excitement, despair—all, all failed before the virtue of Bertha—virtue as pure and strong as her love itself.

Those who know the heart of man, and especially of men as proud and self-willed as M. de Brévannes, will understand the bitter resentment which sprung up in his mind against this young girl, as inflexible in her purity, as he in his corruption.

A man never pardons a woman who escapes by her address, instinct, or virtue, from the dishonouring snare which he has spread for her.

It would be impossible to describe the mental imprecations with which M. de Brévannes overwhelmed Bertha; and to such a pitch did he attain, that he actually believed that "by her calculating refusals, this chit of a girl had the impertinent hope that he—he would one day marry her,"—a most abominable machination, and, no doubt, planned with the old engraver.

M. de Brévannes shrugged his shoulders in pity when he reflected on a manœuvre as odious as it was ridiculous, and resolved to quit Paris. Before he went he had a final interview with Bertha. He fully expected a despairing scene; he found the young girl sad, calm, resigned. She had never given way to any illusion as to her love for M. de Brévannes, but had always anticipated the painful consequences of her ill-omened attachment.

It was, besides, singular that Pierre Raimond, a worthy artist,—austere, and even stoical, in his ideas of right and wrong,—should have educated his daughter in such ideas of wealth that the disproportion of fortune existing between M. de Brévannes and Bertha should seem to her as insurmountable as the distance which separates a king from a daughter of one of the lowest class in society.

Thus far from asking why he, being free, did not make her his wife—a simple and decided mode of reconciling love and duty—Bertha had ingenuously confessed to M. de Brévannes that their love was the more hopeless as Pierre Raimond, in his proud poverty, would never consent to marry his daughter to a rich man.

At the moment of her separation from M. de Brévannes, Bertha promised him to do all she could to forget him, in order to marry a man as poor as herself, and if not, she would never marry.

These words, free from any exaggeration, as simple and true as the poor girl that uttered them, made no impression on De Brévannes; who but saw in the angelic resignation of Bertha a flagrant and final proof of the plot that was laid for him in order to entrap him into a compulsory marriage.

M. de Brévannes set out for Dieppe, believing that he was completely freed from this love affair; and, proud of having escaped from a shameful snare, he awaited with irritating impatience for a humble prayer to return—which he had decided on receiving and treating with extreme contempt; but, to his vast surprise, he did not even hear from Bertha.

At Dieppe, M. de Brévannes met with a Madame Beauvoisis (the domino of the chest)—very pretty, very much the fashion in a certain circle, very coquettish, and who had made a very deep impression on a most agreeable and gentlemanly person.

To revenge himself on Bertha's silence, and certain compunctious prickings of conscience, as well as to elevate himself in his own eyes, after the check which the engraver's daughter had given him, M. de Brévannes determined to play the agreeable with Madame de Beauvoisis, and supplant her favoured lover. He succeeded.

M. de Brévannes was the more annoyed, the more humiliated for his want of success with Bertha, in proportion as the conquest of Madame Beauvoisis seemed more flattering to him. His self-love revolted at the fact of a poor little unknown girl having been able to resist the advances of a man whom a most desirable woman had selected.

We are not pretending that M. de Brévannes had no love for Bertha, but with him the tender impatiences, the "charming agonies" of love—its hopes and melancholy fears—were perverted into strong desires and irritated pride.

He summed up the matter in his mind bitterly and brutally thus:—

"I am determined this girl shall be mine—cost it what it may, mine she shall be!"

Enraged at not receiving any letters from Bertha during the six weeks he had been away, M. de Brévannes suddenly broke off with Madame Beauvoisis, the idol of the season at Dieppe, and returned to his hiding-place in the Ile Saint Louis. When he arrived there, Bertha, unable to overcome her grief, was dying.

Almost touched at this proof of love, and wishing, moreover, at any cost, to have possession of this young girl, M. de Brévannes, in spite of his resolutions never to be duped into a marriage, as he declared, went to Pierre Raimond and demanded his daughter's hand formally in marriage, anticipating an exuberant outpouring of gratitude on the part of the old engraver.

Incredible—unheard of—strange as it may appear (and it completely upset all M. de Brévannes' ideas), Pierre Raimond would not give his consent to this union.

"M. de Brévannes was born rich, Bertha was born poor: there was no sympathy existing between them, no similarity of position, or habits of life, education, and principles, which could offer or ensure any guarantee of happiness for the future."

This was Pierre Raimond's "unchanging theme." There was, in the absolute manner with which this stern old man regarded the distance which separates the rich from the poor, more pride than humility. He established between these two conditions, which he regarded as utterly irreconcilable and diverse, a line as entire and unsurpassable as that which republicans draw between themselves and aristocrats.

The determined obstinacy of M. de Brévannes would have failed before the haughty poverty of the old man, had not Bertha's life been compromised.

A father's instinct is almost always admirably clear-sighted, and when this instinct is allied with excellent common sense, it attains to divination.

Pierre Raimond anticipated his daughter's destiny. Still obliged to choose between the death of a beloved child, and a future, however dreaded, which might, perchance, be averted, the engraver consented at length to the marriage, which took place shortly after M. de Brévannes' return.

Bertha had not for a moment doubted the love of her husband.

Her heart—simple and good, noble and confiding—was unable to resist the unrelenting will of a man, whose energetic protestations had flattered and won her; and in her guileless vanity, the young girl asked herself, with a certain degree of pride, if M. de Brévannes must not have loved her to excess, when he pursued his suit with such unrelaxing tenacity.

Poor Bertha, alas! confounded the proud obstinacy of an uncontrollable temper, which could not endure opposition, with the self-denial, the devoted persistence, of intense passion.

M. de Brévannes was capable of employing every means—even those which had not apparently an honourable plea—to achieve his ends; but that attained, he was also capable of cruelly revenging those sacrifices which he had imposed on himself in order to triumph in a struggle in which his pride was more deeply interested than his love.

With such an intractable temper, the day that followed his victory was seldom one of happiness; the ruder the attack, the more the resistance had lasted, the more his vanity suffered. In the warmth of action he forgot the wounds of his self-love; but after success he felt intensely those bleeding wounds, and his disposition again resumed its ascendancy.

When the fever of his unbridled will, which had constrained M. de Brévannes to marry Bertha, had subsided, he began to regret his marriage very deeply. Yes, he was ashamed of his alliance with an obscure and poor girl, when he reflected on the wealthy alliances to which he might have aspired, and for which the charming qualities, the beauty, and pure mind of Bertha, were hardly a recompense. He believed that he was continually the butt of sarcastic comment, and could not find sufficient raillery to vindicate his ridiculous marriage of affection.

M. de Brévannes was deceived. Several persons, when they saw him marry a lovely, virtuous, and poor girl, gave him credit for a generous and noble spirit, and admired him, and vaunted his singular disinterestedness, and he was absolved, by anticipation, from all the torments which he would inflict on a woman for whom he had done so much.

Some regarded Bertha's conduct as a master-piece of trick and skill; others jeered at M. de Brévannes and his love-match, because they were of a class that mocks at all the world.

No one suspected the real motive of this marriage, and that M. de Brévannes' obstinacy had urged him to it, at least as much as his love.

One last trait of M. de Brévannes' disposition.

For the four years he had been married, Bertha, more loving, more resigned than ever, had not given him the slightest cause of complaint, although he had openly committed frequent infidelities, and sometimes given her rivals of very low degree; the wretched woman had wept her tears of bitterness in secret, but never made any complaint.

In spite of this patience—in spite of her perfect gentleness, M. de Brévannes sometimes gave himself up to inconceivable suspicions and jealousy, and under the most frivolous pretexts.

This violent jealousy was by no means a proof of De Brévannes' love. If he went into a rage at the mere thought (utterly false and unjust) that his wife might be faithless to him, it was because Bertha's fault would have covered (as he thought), with unextinguishable ridicule, this love-match, for which he had sacrificed so much. M. de Brévannes desired, at least, to be able to vaunt the irreproachable and exemplary conduct of the fair and obscure woman whom he had chosen.

After they had been eighteen months wedded, M. de Brévannes, becoming very tired of his happiness, had travelled in Italy for several months, leaving his wife under the care of Pierre Raimond, whose austere morality he fully recognised.

The old engraver would not consent to live with his daughter in M. de Brévannes' house during her husband's absence, and Bertha had, therefore, taken up her abode with her father in the Ile Saint Louis, and resumed, in the Rue Poultier, the room she occupied before she was married.

Since his journey to Italy, where he had formed Madame de Hansfeld's acquaintance (as we shall see hereafter), M. de Brévannes' temper had become much soured, and his disposition had grown sombre, irascible, and was often brutal; and Bertha had very frequently suffered acutely from it. These points enumerated, we will now follow M. de Brévannes to his residence after his return from the Opera-ball, where he had been so completely mystified by Madame Beauvoisis, the domino of the chest.

CHAPTER VII

MADAME DE BRÉVANNES

The house in which M. de Brévannes occupied the first floor was situated in the Rue Saint Florentin. Utterly indifferent to the enjoyments or little comforts of a well-arranged home, he had simply commanded the upholsterer who furnished them to see no expense spared; and with this unrestricted permission before him, the tradesman employed had done his best to produce the very beau idéal of a furnished lodging, that is to say, he had given to the residence of M. de Brévannes the most chill, comfortless, and commonplace aspect imaginable. Nothing that marked a taste, pursuit, or personal convenience, was to be seen in the dreary chambers; not a portrait, a picture,—not a vestige of the fine arts embellished the spacious rooms. The only one exempted from the triste vulgarity that predominated over the others was a small drawing-room especially appropriated to Bertha, and in which she passed her entire days.

Spite of the advanced hour of the night, or rather morning, for it was now four o'clock, it is into this very chamber we are about to introduce the reader.

Although the continual absences of M. de Brévannes might well have accustomed his gentle partner to them, yet Madame de Brévannes still experienced too much anxiety on his account ever to retire to rest until well assured of his safe return.

It was then four o'clock in the morning, and Bertha, seated in an arm-chair, her clasped hands reposing on her lap, was mechanically gazing on the expiring embers which flickered on the hearth. A lamp placed on a small table beside her, on which lay a half open book, shone full on the delicate features of the pensive wife, and cast a soft glow upon the glossy bands of her rich chestnut hair, which, braided so as merely to display the finely formed ear, with its roseate tip, was plaited in with the luxuriant masses, ornamenting the back of her small and classically shaped head.

The most striking characteristic of the lovely countenance of Bertha was its look of almost angelic sweetness, and when she raised her beautiful, large, blue eyes, it was impossible to resist their gentle influence. Her somewhat serious mouth seemed rather intended to express the smile of affection and universal benevolence than the noisy laugh of extreme gaiety, while the meditative attitude in which she sat displayed to advantage the graceful roundness of her long white throat.

Bertha wore a dress of light grey silk, whose subdued shade harmonised admirably with the delicacy of her transparent complexion. On one side of the fire-place stood a pianoforte loaded with music, and over the mantel-piece were suspended two portraits of unequal sizes, representing the father and mother of Bertha. A considerable number of plain black frames, containing copper-plate engravings, the works of Pierre Raimond, were hung around the small chamber, the walls of which were covered with embossed red paper, that gave it an air of lightness and cheerfulness very different from the rest of the apartments; and on the chimney-piece stood an old enamelled clock and two small blue and white candlesticks of Limoges enamel, which had once belonged to Bertha's mother, who had received them from her husband as a wedding present.

A tear which had long hung suspended from the thick lashes of Bertha's eyelid fell on her cheek like a liquid pearl. Her bosom heaved convulsively—a sudden tremor seized her frame, while a deep flush suffused her countenance, as again she sunk into her former gloomy abstraction.

Let us briefly explain the cause both of Bertha's sadness and utter dejection.

During her last residence in Lorraine, M. de Brévannes had bestowed the most marked attention on one of the female attendants belonging to his wife. The insolence displayed by the creature thus improperly distinguished opened the eyes of Madame de Brévannes as to its real cause, or, at least, infused into her mind such strong suspicions as to call for the immediate dismissal of the guilty woman.

This trying circumstance had occurred a few days before the return of M. de Brévannes to Paris, and had left a bitter feeling of injury in the mind of Bertha, who, however she might previously have smarted under her husband's infidelity, had never experienced a similar humiliation.

Four o'clock struck, and aroused Madame de Brévannes from her reverie. Absorbed in her deep and painful meditation, she had taken no note of the hours, and was surprised to find the night so completely gone.

At this moment a carriage stopped at the door, and Bertha began to regret having sat up so late. Her husband had peremptorily forbidden her ever awaiting his return. The servants, also, by his orders, retired to rest whether their master were in or not. He usually entered by a small side door, of which he alone had the key, but he was compelled to pass through Bertha's sitting-room in order to reach one of the two sleeping-apartments which communicated with it.

At the sight of her husband, Bertha rose to meet him, endeavouring, by a forced smile, to deprecate the storm she dreaded and anticipated.

The contraction of M. de Brévannes' features indicated the evil passions which at that moment possessed him. The few words spoken at random by Madame Beauvoisis respecting his journey to Italy had awakened within him a crowd of painful ideas, which he had been compelled to restrain during the hall and supper; it was, therefore, with considerable pleasure he promised himself a means of venting the wrath and bitterness with which he was filled, by quarrelling with his wife for sitting up for him.

"How is this, madam?" exclaimed he, as he entered; "four o'clock in the morning, and you not yet retired to bed! May I inquire the meaning of such strange conduct? Or is it that you may know at what hour I return home? Am I, or am I not, master of my own actions? Is your inquisitorial system to recommence the instant I set my foot in this place? Perhaps it may be as well, since we are upon the subject, to go into it at full length, in order that we may have no further occasion to revert to it during the whole of the winter."

So saying, he threw himself abruptly into the chair Bertha had just quitted, while she remained standing by the piano, utterly overcome with surprise at this abrupt torrent of reproach.

"You know," answered she, timidly, "your wishes are at all times mine; only tell me what you wish me to do, and rest assured of my implicit obedience. Indeed, it was with no thought of watching your conduct that I sat up so late; I was amusing myself by arranging this little apartment, and that occupied me so deeply that, before I was aware of it, I found it was one o'clock in the morning; then, fancying that you would soon be home, I thought I would wait for you. I slept a little, and so four o'clock struck before I was aware how the time had passed. That is how I came to offend you, Charles;" then smiling sweetly, and raising her lovely face towards her husband, she added, "And will you not forgive me for having unintentionally done so?"

But this angelic mildness disarmed not M. de Brévannes.

"What folly is this?" exclaimed he; "you really waste, a vast many fine words, madam, most unnecessarily. I am not arraigning your conduct as though you had committed a crime, and it is more than absurd to put such a construction upon what I did say; but of this be assured, I am not to be cheated as to the real motive that kept you from your bed to-night. Why not be candid, and admit that you chose to sit up that you might satisfy yourself as to the precise hour and minute I came home? You will oblige me, however, by not doing so again. I do not intend, I can tell you, to allow a repetition of the scenes of last year, or that, either by sullenness or assuming the air and appearance of a victim, you shall presume to imply a censure upon whatever I may think proper to do or to say."

"Oh, Charles! have I ever uttered one word?—except, indeed——"

"Upon my life," cried M. de Brévannes, interrupting his wife, "some persons possess the happy art of making their looks, and even silence, more expressive than words themselves."

"Alas, Charles, it is not always possible to prevent myself from being sad!"

"And wherefore should you be so? Do you want for any thing?—are you not elevated to a rank and station you never could have ventured to hope for?—have I not done all that human ability admits for you?"

"Charles, you well know I am not unmindful of all your benefits; my only regret is that I cannot better prove my gratitude to you."

"Yet all I require of you is simply to render my home agreeable to me, and to put on a smiling look of happiness instead of perpetually censuring my conduct by your melancholy and other affectations. If I thought fit to indulge my inclinations by marrying you, it was because, first, I was in love, and, secondly——"

"To have a wife submissive to your commands—I am perfectly sensible of that. You preferred me to a richer bride, because gratitude for the sacrifice you had made for me would necessarily render my duties still more binding and sacred in my eyes; and I should have been extremely sorry had you not so considered it, as it would have left me no means of repaying you for your kindness. But let me assure you, Charles, that you are greatly mistaken in ascribing my sadness (which is frequently involuntary) to any desire on my part to criticise your actions, which it becomes not me to question."

"But what is the meaning of this sadness?"

After a moment's hesitation, Bertha, with downcast eyes, replied,—

"There may be among your actions some that render me sad, without my venturing to complain of them."

"Upon my word, you are too deep a casuist for me! Come now, I will render the subject more clear, and disclose to you what your real thoughts are, though you dare not own them even to yourself. Why, instead of employing all these hypocritical circumlocutions, can you not come boldly to the point, and candidly confess that jealousy is the main-spring of your conduct?"

"Let me beseech you not to refer to that."

"And why not? On the contrary, I consider it most advantageous to weigh well our present position in all its relative bearings. And first, for the grand question you long to propose, but dare not, have I, or have I not, mistresses to occupy my time and thoughts? Now, that is the very thing of which you ought either to be entirely ignorant, or, at least, to feign ignorance. Such would be the conduct of a sensible woman, instead of tormenting herself to death with ridiculous jealousy."

"Charles, is it for you to assert that we may reason ourselves out of such a feeling as jealousy, no matter however unfounded, or whether the object that excites it be worthy or otherwise?"

"Capital, indeed, madam! Then it seems you accuse me of being jealous?"

"Oh, no!—I accuse you not—that would be to imply that jealousy were a crime, and Heaven knows I had need be indulgent towards a sentiment under whose bitterest torments I have myself writhed."

"You are under a gross error, madam, if you suppose that we stand upon equal grounds as regards the indulging such a passion as jealousy? Whether I am faithful to you or not, in no degree affects your consideration with society. But that I, who have sacrificed every thing for you, should be exposed to fresh ridicule!—I tell you," continued M. de Brévannes, rising from his chair, his teeth clenched, and his hands compressed with rage,—"that at the very supposition I can no longer command myself!" and as though unable to master the boiling rage which shook his frame and inflamed every feature, he commenced rapidly pacing the room.

"You speak truly, Charles," said Bertha, sorrowfully, "our jealousy is not the same. Mine springs from my heart, yours from your pride; but it matters not, and I respect it equally. Have you ever once heard me complain of the seclusion in which I live? Except my father, whom you permit me to visit twice a-week, and a few members of your own family it is your pleasure I should receive, I live entirely alone. Oh, let me hasten to thank you for granting me the happiness of communing with my own thoughts undisturbed by the great and the gay!"

"Yet all this enjoyment does not prevent your finding the time long and tedious; and every body knows the effects solitude and want of occupation produce in the minds of females."

"But I am never unoccupied—never for an instant. You know how passionately fond I am of music; then I draw, I read. As for the solitude, your being more at home does not depend upon me."

While Madame de Brévannes was speaking, her husband had approached the window, and mechanically opened the curtains drawn before it. He observed on the other side of the street, on the first floor of the house opposite his own, lights in the window corresponding to the one by which he stood, and through the glass he could discern the outline of a man attentively gazing from that window.

It was now nearly five o'clock in the morning, all was dark without, and the street was perfectly deserted; what object of interest, then, could the individual opposite have in thus keeping watch, unless it were to reconnoiter the windows of Madame de Brévannes' apartment, doubtless the only one throughout the house in which a light was burning at that unusual hour?

One of those absurd suspicions which enter only into the brain of jealous deceivers (a class essentially distinct from that of jealous deceived)—we repeat that a suspicion of the most absurd description all at once entered the mind of M. de Brévannes, who, turning quickly round towards his wife, and looking at her with angry glances and threatening countenance, exclaimed,—