M. de Hansfeld was surprised, agitated, and excited.

He had seen Bertha alight from a carriage with De Brévannes,—Bertha, to whom he had, as he believed, said adieu for ever at their last interview at Pierre Raimond's.

Never having known that Paula was acquainted with De Brévannes, Arnold could not conceive why he had brought his wife to the Hôtel Lambert, and how Madame de Hansfeld had formed an intimacy with Bertha, of whom she knew he was enamoured. Had not Paula, in order to escape the journey to Germany which her husband had threatened, in her turn menaced him with disclosing to M. de Brévannes the interviews he had had with Bertha at the engraver's?

What, then, was Paula's motive in receiving Bertha at the Hôtel Lambert? was it affectation or indifference?

Arnold was bewildered in conjecture, and when he reflected that he was about to see Bertha once more, astonishment, delight, and fear, agitated him in spite of himself, and he said to Paula in a voice which shook with emotion,—

"I think I have just seen some visitors arrive for you?"

"Yes," replied Madame de Hansfeld, who was also considerably embarrassed, "one of my friends has introduced me in society to Madame de Brévannes, who is, they say, so charming, and whom you find so!" she added, with a forced laugh, "Madame de Brévannes asked me what day I should be at home, I told her to-day, and then forgot it. She is waiting now with her husband. Not having seen you, it was impossible for me to tell you of this expected visit, which I should suppose, however, is by no means disagreeable to you."

"May I remark, godmother, that these gentlefolks have been here for a long time?" said Iris, with the kind of respectful familiarity which was usual with her.

"She is right," said De Hansfeld, imprudently yielding to the desire of once more seeing Bertha, and he rang the bell.

A footman appeared.

"Request the lady and gentleman to walk in," said the prince.

The footman left the room.

Iris and Paula exchanged a meaning look.

In order to understand the following scene, we must explain that a few lines of the Black Book, written by Iris in Paula's name, had that very morning been shewn to De Brévannes, by which he learned that the Prince de Hansfeld was the object of Bertha's love, and that she had very often met him under an assumed name at Pierre Raimond's.

A few expressive words indicated the terrible consequences which De Brévannes proposed to elicit from this love; whose punishment, if it became guilty and was detected, would assure the liberty of himself and Paula.

After this discovery, De Brévannes redoubled his hypocrisy, in order still further to lull his wife into security, although he resolved to watch narrowly, not doubting in the least her love for the prince.

Bertha's first refusal to go to the Hôtel Lambert, her increasing emotion as she approached the place where she would see Arnold again, were convincing proofs of this love. De Brévannes was besides informed by the porter at Pierre Raimond's of the visits the engraver received; and De Hansfeld had been so accurately described to him that he only awaited the opportunity of seeing the prince to be assured of his identity with the constant visitor of Pierre Raimond.

Paula, seated by the fireside, had beside her a small table, on which was laid the fatal pin; which, handed to Iris, would prevent the disclosure to De Brévannes of the trickery of which he was the dupe, and leave him in the delusion that in getting rid of his wife and the prince he might marry Paula.

The Bohemian girl, occupied at some tapestry-work, was partially concealed by the window-curtains near which she was seated, but still she did not take her eyes off her mistress.

And it must be added that her look sometimes exercised a kind of fascination over Paula.

M. de Hansfeld, standing near the fireplace, endeavoured, but in vain, to conceal his emotion.

The door opened, and a valet-de-chambre announced,—"M. and Madame de Brévannes."

Our readers may, perchance, find a contrast sufficiently dramatic between the futile, slight, and "bald, disjointed chat" of the four actors in this scene, and the anxieties, the various and deep passions which agitated them.

Madame de Hansfeld rose, went some steps towards Bertha, and said to her with complaisance,—

"Madame, you are most kind to have remembered that I was at home to-day."

"Madame, you—are—very obliging," stammered Bertha, lowering her eyes that she might not meet those of Arnold.

The poor girl was ready to sink.

The princess added,—

"Will you allow me, madame, to present the Prince de Hansfeld, who has not yet had the honour of an introduction to you?"

Arnold advanced, made a low bow, and said to Bertha,—

"I very much regret not having accompanied Madame de Hansfeld into society as often as I could have wished; and after her good fortune in being introduced to you, I regret it doubly, madame; yet I console myself as I am happy enough to have now an opportunity of paying my respects to you."

Anxious to come to Bertha's aid, and who, more and more troubled, had not a word to reply to Arnold, Madame de Hansfeld said to him, presenting M. de Brévannes,—

"M. de Brévannes."

De Brévannes bowed.

The prince returned his salute, and said, with much affability,—

"I shall be always delighted, sir, to see you at Madame de Hansfeld's, and hope I shall often have that pleasure."

"As often, sir, as it will be possible for me to profit by so agreeable a request without intrusion."

After these indispensable preliminaries, the four persons seated themselves, Paula in her place on the right hand of the fire-place, Bertha on the left hand side, De Brévannes beside Madame de Hansfeld, and Arnold by the engraver's daughter.

The prince, feeling the utter necessity of subduing his emotion, did the honours of his house with perfect dignity.

Bertha, on her part, gradually resumed her self-possession. Paula exerted herself not to give way to the terrible ideas which had occupied her brain since her conversation with Iris.

De Brévannes, who had always heard the prince mentioned as a sort of original, whimsical, strange-tempered, and half an idiot, and had asked himself how his wife could be smitten with such a man, was utterly amazed at the distinguished manners and urbane condescension of De Hansfeld, whose youthful and mild features were singularly attractive.

It was then he fully comprehended Bertha's love, and his rage increased against her and De Hansfeld. From time to time he cast a furtive glance upon her, as fierce as the glare of a tiger, then he sought Paula's look with an air of intelligence, by turns gloomy and impassioned, which proved to Madame de Hansfeld that Iris had not deceived her with respect to the Black Book.

After the few first commonplaces had passed, a silence succeeded that was somewhat embarrassing.

The prince broke it, by saying to Bertha,—

"You must have had some trouble, madame, in finding this isolated abode in the midst of this deserted quarter?"

"No, sir!" replied Bertha, blushing to her eyes; "my father lives very close by."

This reply, which the young lady had made without reflection, redoubled her confusion, by recalling to her the first time she detected her love for Arnold, who added quickly,—

"That is different, madame; but for real Parisians to come to the Ile Saint Louis it is always a kind of journey."

"At least," said De Brévannes, "they are recompensed for the journey, as you call it, sir, by being enabled to admire this hôtel, which is really a palace."

"Indeed," said Paula, to carry on the conversation, "in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, the quarter for fine houses, where we resided for some time, we could not find any thing comparable to this really spacious residence."

"We build no palaces now," said De Brévannes; "fortunes are too much divided. You gentlemen foreigners have much more sense than we have: in England, Russia, and Germany also, I presume, the right of primogeniture has wisely preserved the principle of large inheritance."

"I am sure, sir," said De Hansfeld, with a smile, "you have never had brother or sister?"

"True, sir; but whence do you deduce that certainty?"

"From your admiration of the right of primogeniture."

De Brévannes did not comprehend the amiable meaning of the prince's remark, and replied,—

"You think, then, sir, if I had not been an only son, I should have viewed the subject differently?"

"I think, sir, that your love for your brothers and sisters would completely have changed your view of this subject. But excuse me, madame," said the prince, addressing Bertha, "for talking politics; and without any transition I will ask you, what you thought of the new comedy at the Théâtre Français? Madame de Hansfeld and myself had the pleasure of seeing you, I may not say of remarking you, there."

"Why you could hardly do otherwise," said Bertha, with a little more confidence, "for I was seated beside Madame Girard, who wore so singular a head-dress that it attracted universal attention."

"I assure you, madame," remarked Paula, "that on casting our eyes towards your box, we saw the singular cap, the sobieska of Madame Girard, by chance."

"The comedy seemed to me delightful and replete with interest," said Bertha; "and without knowing the author, M. de Gercourt, I was delighted at his success, he had so many persons who envied him."

"M. de Gercourt, the author, is quite a fashionable man, is he not?" inquired Madame de Hansfeld.

"Yes, madame," replied De Brévannes, "he was one of the five or six most fashionable men in Paris—he ranked even directly after handsome Morville, that star which for so long a time has shone with unrivalled brilliancy: between ourselves, I scarcely know why: it was a ridiculous infatuation, nothing more, for Gercourt and many others have a thousand times more attractions than this assuming M. de Morville."

Paula started when she heard the name so dear to her pronounced.

The glances of the princess and Iris met, and the look of the latter fell on Paula's heart like lead.

Completely ignorant of Paula's love for De Morville, and thinking it would have a good effect, in her eyes, to display his contempt of one of the most distinguished men in Paris, and moreover giving way to a feeling of envy and a habit of aspersion, which he had long entertained towards De Morville, whom he detested for no other cause than mean jealousy, De Brévannes continued,—

"This Monsieur de Morville has a pretty face, if you please, but he has, at the same time, such a besotted air of self-satisfaction that he is really sickening. They talk of his successes, but then he has never succeeded but with women whose facility of conquest makes them hardly worth a struggle for men who are in the same society as themselves. There was an immense deal of talk as to his affair with that English lady. He was certainly very deeply in love with her, but she laughed at him as every woman of good taste must do: for do you not think, madame, that we may always judge of the value of a woman by the value of the man whom she distinguishes?"

"That is generally true, sir," said Paula, restraining herself.

"Well, madame, then you may imagine the silly and ridiculous enthusiasts of this silly and ridiculous De Morville."

Nothing is more vulgar than the saying, "Small causes often produce great results," but nothing can be more true than this vulgarism.

Another proof:

De Hansfeld was not acquainted with De Morville, and it was indifferent to him whether he was well or ill spoken of; but giving way unconsciously, no doubt, to a vague desire to stand well with M. de Brévannes, he thought it would be agreeable to him if he shared with him in his opinion of De Morville.

Moreover, poor Bertha herself, as much from desire to conciliate her husband, as from that deference, that involuntary acquiescence which a woman invariably accords to the opinion of the man she loves—poor Bertha, we must add, was actually the simple and unsuspecting echo of the prince in the ensuing conversation.

This conversation was the cause, we shall hereafter discover the effect.

De Hansfeld, therefore, said,—

"I do not know M. de Morville, I have only seen him once or twice; he seemed handsome, but his affectation struck me as ridiculous, and I heard it remarked that his merit was absurdly exaggerated."

"I heard the same thing," added the unlucky Bertha; "he seemed to me to have very regular features, but they were perhaps too insignificant."

Paula did not utter a syllable. She took from off the small table the fatal pin, and began to play with the ornament.

Iris never took her eyes off her mistress. She started with gloomy joy when she observed her mistress's action.

We may see that the petty cause was beginning to produce its effect.

"I am delighted to see a person of taste like you, sir," said M. de Brévannes to the prince, "confirm my judgment by approval."

Arnold, in order to establish himself perfectly in the good graces of Bertha's husband, ventured on a slight falsehood, and added,—

"I remember to have listened one day to his conversation, and I really thought it below mediocrity."

"It is true that M. de Morville does not pass, they say, for having a great deal of wit," added the gentle and softly responsive echo, lowering her large blue eyes, and blushing equally at the falsehood and at her effort to stoop to a kind of meanness in order to be agreeable to her husband.

The petty cause contrived to produce its effect.

Still retaining the star-ornamented pin in her right hand, Madame de Hansfeld, as it were, beat on her left hand the measure of the crescendo of the anger that agitated her, and which included De Brévannes, Bertha, and the prince.

At this moment, she again encountered the eyes of Iris, and instead of turning from the look of the Bohemian, she gazed at her for a moment with an air so significant, that Iris thought she was about to give her the pin.

De Brévannes continued, addressing Madame de Hansfeld,—

"But what do you think of M. de Morville, madame? Are we not right to shew our disgust at the sheepish admiration which makes an idol of such a nullity?"

"Assuredly, sir," said Paula, "it is quite right not to take men as always deserving of reputation because they are in repute."

"And never was repute less merited. I am not alone in my opinion, I assure you. There are many persons who think as I do; and what most prejudices me against M. de Morville is, that he assumes perfection in every thing. To hear him one would believe that he rides, handles his weapons, and shoots better than any man living."

"Is M. de Morville a great shot?" inquired Arnold.

"He at least pretends to be so, as well as every thing else; but I am sure that he would be found wanting in that as in every thing else, and he shoots because it is fashionable and not because he cares for it."

"He is wrong," said Arnold, "for shooting is one of the most exciting amusements I know of."

"Are you a sportsman, sir?" inquired De Brévannes.

"We have such excellent sporting in Germany that it is impossible not to have a taste for it. There is one class of sport, too, of which I am passionately fond, and which, perhaps, is not much known in France."

"What sport is that, sir? I can inform you, for I have liked, and still like, sporting excessively."

"Wild-fowl shooting. We have in Germany such splendid flights of aquatic birds."

"You like wild-fowl shooting!" exclaimed De Brévannes, after a moment's reflection, as if a sudden light broke in upon his thoughts.

"To madness, sir! Have you much of this sport in France?"

"Yes we have; and I may add, that I have some of the best in the country at my house in Lorraine."

"Yes," interposed Bertha, naïvely, "and it was only this morning that M. de Brévannes's steward wrote him word that there was at this time an extraordinary flight of——I forget the name of these birds," she added, with a smile.

"Halbrans—wild ducks, which come and settle on our lakes in clouds. And really, sir," continued De Brévannes, "if I was not afraid of passing for a downright boor, a man who has no idea of ceremony——"

The prince looked at M. de Brévannes with surprise.

"Really, sir," said he, "I do not understand you."

"Well, then, ma foi, away with scruple—frankness amongst sportsmen above every thing. The flight of wild fowl is splendid this year, and it always lasts a week or ten days. I have four hundred acres of lakes—my house is well arranged for the winter—will you then allow me to invite you to come and have a little shooting? In six-and-thirty hours we shall reach the place; and if, by an unhoped-for chance, Madame de Hansfeld had no aversion for the country for some few days in the winter season, Madame de Brévannes would endeavour to make the house as pleasant as possible to her. You see, sir, when I do a bold thing I do not do it by halves."

At this sudden and unexpected proposition, so totally unlike received customs and usages, and which, if accepted by M. de Hansfeld, might have such terrible results, the princess shuddered.

Bertha turned very red, and trembled, Iris bounded from her chair. De Hansfeld could scarcely repress his delight; but before he accepted, he endeavoured (but in vain) to catch Bertha's eye. The young lady dared not look at him.

Arnold interpreted the negative expression in his favour, and replied,—

"Really, sir, this offer is so considerate, and made with so much good grace, that I am afraid to let you see all the pleasure it affords me, if, as you say, between sportsmen one ought always to accept frankly what is frankly offered."

"You accept them, sir," exclaimed De Brévannes. Then turning towards Paula: "May I hope, madame, that the example of M. de Hansfeld will encourage you, however blunt my invitation may appear, however unusual may be in the middle of winter such a party (I dare not say) of pleasure? I am sure that Madame de Brévannes would do all in her power to relieve the long dullness of a few days of solitude in the midst of our woods."

"Pray believe, madame," said Bertha, in a tremulous voice, "that I should be very happy if you would condescend to grant us this favour."

"You are a thousand times too good, madame; but I really should fear to put you to so much inconvenience," said Paula, with inexpressible anguish. She felt, that on her consent hung the fate of the future to herself, De Morville, Bertha, and Arnold; for as Iris had anticipated, without at the same time foreseeing this incident, she felt that events were hurrying on with fearful rapidity.

"Be generous, madame," said De Brévannes. "We will endeavour to amuse you; we will have some real ladies' sport. I have good ferrets, and if you never saw ferreting, it will amuse you greatly. The weather is very mild this winter, and I can promise you some torchlight fishing. Then I have a well-stocked preserve of does and kids, and you will see them caught in the toils. I should say there is nothing barbarous in this, for the victims are taken alive. I know, madame, that these are but rustic and simple amusements; but the very contrast they offer with a Paris life during winter may make them piquant; and then, after having tried these, you will perhaps find more enjoyment in your return to the gay pleasures of high society."

"Believe me, sir," replied Paula, with increasing and deeper anxiety, "this party of pleasure so suddenly proposed would be most agreeable, for I should thus enjoy the society of Madame de Brévannes: but I really fear that she only consents to this impromptu journey out of complaisance to me."

"Oh, no, madame! I assure you I should be highly delighted—have extreme gratification——"

Again the important effect caused by a petty cause.

Bertha uttered these words with such an expression of pleasure and joy—the look she exchanged at the moment with Arnold (a look rapidly intercepted by Paula) betrayed a passion so profound, so ineffable, so radiant, that all the snakes of envy and rage gnawed at Madame de Hansfeld's heartstrings.

Paula herself loved with passion, with intoxication, but her love could never be prosperous. The sight of a happiness which was forbidden her redoubled her anger. She recalled the almost contemptuous malevolence with which De Brévannes, De Hansfeld, and Bertha, had spoken of De Morville, and she included them all three in the same sentiment of hate. At this moment of intense exasperation, the more violent as it was repressed, she accepted the offer of De Brévannes, and said to Bertha, in a voice whose emotion she perfectly controlled,—

"Well, madame, at the risk of being really troublesome, by complying with your friendly pressing, I accept."

"How kind of you, madame!" was Bertha's reply.

"And when shall we set out, M. de Brévannes?" asked the prince, unable to conceal his joy. "I shall make quite a fête of my sporting."

"I am at Madame de Hansfeld's order," observed De Brévannes; "only I would remark, that the rest of birds of passage is usually very brief, and we ought to reach my house as soon as possible."

"What say you, madame?" inquired De Hansfeld of his wife.

"To-morrow, if that would suit Madame de Brévannes."

"Quite," said De Brévannes. "I and my wife will set out this evening, and precede you a few hours, so that we may have the pleasure of awaiting you there."

At this moment Iris arose. This movement reminded Madame de Hansfeld of all the terrible reality of her position.

A cloud passed before her eyes. Her breath was for an instant stopped by the violent throbbings of her heart, and she shuddered as if an ice-cold hand was passing through her hair.

The fatal moment had arrived. She was now to take the first step in the path of crime.

If she allowed Iris to leave the room without giving her the pin, the girl was to disclose all to M. de Brévannes, and Paula must renounce every hope, so near and probable, of marrying De Morville, by profiting from the double murder of which she would be completely innocent in the eyes of the world.

Iris, with a little noise, arranged some things on the table in order to warn her mistress.

Paula still hesitated.

Iris made a step towards the door. A terrible struggle ensued in Madame de Hansfeld's mind between her good and bad angel.

Iris advanced towards the door, and placed her hand on the lock.

The handle made a noise in turning. Paula's bad angel had the ascendancy in the struggle. Madame de Hansfeld said, in a tone scarcely audible, so low, so very low, "Iris!" that it was necessary for all the Bohemian's attention to the same in order to catch the word.

Iris in two steps approached her mistress.

"Here, go, I beg, and put away this pin," said Paula, in a faint voice.

And she handed the pin to the Bohemian.

Iris, as she touched her mistress's hand to take the jewel, felt it damp and cold as death.

CHAPTER XLVI

THE CHÂTEAU DE BRÉVANNES

M. de Brévannes's estate, situated in Lorraine, near Longeville, at some leagues from Bar-le-Duc, was a comfortable residence. A nice park, some excellent preserves, magnificent lakes, fed by the overflows of the Ornain, a dwelling-house spacious and convenient: all in this property responded to the picture which De Brévannes had drawn to M. de Hansfeld.

Bertha, her husband, the prince, and Paula, had been already three days at the château. Iris had been included, of course, in De Brévannes's invitation,—an invitation which each of our personages had too powerful motives for accepting, to pause for a moment at the idea of the singularity of such a journey at this season.

Paula had continually avoided every chance of being alone with De Brévannes, who, by the advice of Iris, had imitated Madame de Hansfeld, in order that he might not give any appearance of premeditation to the vengeance upon which he was so coolly calculating.

Bertha was, however, agitated by sinister presentiments. During the whole of the journey from Paris, De Brévannes had displayed either a forced gaiety or such obsequious attention that Bertha's suspicions were vaguely aroused.

One moment she had resolved on entreating her husband to leave her in Paris, but after the formal engagement she had made with the Prince and Princess de Hansfeld, she gave up that idea.

On reaching Brévannes she was occupied in shewing every attention to her guests. It was strange, but she never for a moment suspected that her husband might be enamoured of Madame de Hansfeld; had this occurred to her, she might have been reassured. Although the way in which this country visit had been arranged was natural enough, yet a secret instinct told Bertha that the excursion had another object beside wild-fowl shooting.

The only person completely happy and free from fear or mental uneasiness was Arnold. Unexpected chance had so well served his love at a moment when he was despairing, that he gave way entirely and unreservedly to the happiness of passing a few days with Bertha in domestic intimacy.

Iris watched every thing and espied every motion of Arnold and Madame de Brévannes. Unfortunately for the gipsy girl, these two, in spite of the constant efforts of M. de Brévannes to bring them to a tête-à-tête, had constantly avoided it.

There remained for Iris a last and infallible means of compelling Bertha and M. de Hansfeld to a secret interview, which must compromise them as regards appearances. When night fell, she would go and tell Bertha that her father, dreadfully alarmed at her sudden departure, had followed her, and that he might not run the risk of meeting De Brévannes, begged her to await him in the châlet, or pavilion in which, in the summer time, Madame de Brévannes usually spent her day. This small building, situated in the midst of a clump of trees, was approached by an iron-gate in the park. Nothing could be more probable than that Pierre Raimond should do such a thing: Bertha would go and await him in the summerhouse, where, instead of the old engraver, Arnold would arrive: then, warned by Iris, De Brévannes would go to the spot, and the sequel might be guessed.

The third day of her arrival at Brévannes, the Bohemian girl, tired of spying in vain, looked for Bertha, in order to make her the victim of the machination she was plotting, when she saw her coming from the side of the pavilion in question, and behind her, at a short distance, M. de Hansfeld.

Iris glided into a clump of holly and thick box-wood bushes, which shaded the park in this spot, and in which was a winding path which went from the chalet to the iron gate of the park.

We should say that this building, situated at the angle of the park-walls, consisted of two rooms on the ground-floor.

It was about four o'clock—the day very cloudy, and the sky rainy and threatening. At the moment when Iris concealed herself in the thicket Arnold overtook Bertha.

Madame de Brévannes started at the sight of the prince, and turned several paces back to return to the chateau; but Arnold, taking her hand with an air of entreaty, said to her,—

"At last, then, I may have one moment's conversation with you—after two days! It would really seem as if you avoided me—me so happy at this unexpected journey. Really, Bertha, I can scarcely credit my happiness!"

"I entreat you to leave me!—I have avoided you because I am afraid——"

"Afraid of what, mon Dieu?"

"Monsieur de Hansfeld, you love me—do you not?" exclaimed Bertha, suddenly.

"Love you!—yes, indeed!"

"Well, then, do not refuse me the only favour I have ever asked of you."

"What do you mean?"

"Go!"

"Go! and I have only just arrived!—when——"

"I say, if you love me, you will seize on the first opportunity, good or bad, to leave this house."

"I really do not comprehend! Why, when your husband——"

"Oh! do not pronounce his name here!"

"Take courage—I share your scruples—I am here in this house—I will not breathe one word of love to you—I will say nothing that your father might not hear if he were present. What I request, Bertha, is, but some of those kind and tender words which you addressed to your brother Arnold in those long conversations which we three used to have at your father's."

"Hush!—some one is in the walk," said Bertha, with uneasiness.

"What a child you are!—it is the wind that moves the trees. See how the hail and rain are falling, and you have come out without your African cloak; that is a double error, for that burnous with a hood becomes you excessively."

"I left it in the vestibule; but I beseech you to return to the château."

"It is too far—the rain is falling—why should we not enter the châlet, there, and wait until this shower has passed over?"

"No!—no!"

"Do you forget your promise to shew me your pavilion—your favourite retreat? Oh! I will not let slip this excellent opportunity of making you fulfil your promise. See, the rain falls heavier!—come, I pray of you! But what ails you?—you scarcely speak to me!—you tremble—it is with cold, no doubt! How could you be so imprudent?"

"I cannot tell you what I feel, but it is a vague, involuntary terror. I beseech you let us return to the château, in spite of the rain."

"This is childish folly to which I cannot consent. You are unwell, and really must not expose yourself further. The rain is as cold as ice—the châlet is but a few steps from us."

"Well, then, promise me to depart to-morrow."

"What! again?"

"Yes—do not ask me wherefore. I am alarmed for you—for myself, and I shall not be at ease until you are far from here. I cannot explain my fears even to myself, but they try me bitterly."

"Really, admitting that your husband were jealous, what have you to fear?—what wrong are we doing? Besides, he is most attentive to you, and suspects nothing."

"It is those attentions, so new to me, and his hypocritical mildness, which alarms me. He, always so coarse, so rude; and one day——" Bertha started, and exclaimed, whilst she placed her trembling hand on Arnold's arm, "Again! I am certain some one is moving in the clump!—they are following us."

Arnold listened, and then heard some branches crackle in the thick bushes of box and holly. In spite of a difficulty of penetrating this solid hedge, Arnold was about to plunge into it, when the noise increased, the foliage shook, and, a few yards from them, a kid bounded forth and crossed their path. Arnold could not repress a burst of laughter, and said to Bertha,—

"This was your spy!"

The young lady, somewhat reassured, took Arnold's arm, and they were now only a few paces from the châlet.

"Well, poor little trembler!" said Arnold.

"I beseech you not to laugh at me—I am a believer in presentiments—God sends them to us."

"But why? because your husband seems returning towards you with better feelings, should you be alarmed? Suppose even that this kindness is assumed to ensnare you in some way, what have you to fear? What can he surprise? After all, what do I ask but to enjoy fairly what he freely offered to me—the passing of a few days near you? I swear to you, not answering what my wishes may be hereafter, but as I am at this moment the happiest of men, I ask nothing beyond this; the present is so delightful, so sweet, that it would be profanation to think of more."

The rain increased in violence. The day which had been all along very gloomy was nearly at its close.

Bertha and the prince entered the châlet.

CHAPTER XLVII

THE CHÂLET

Behtha, in order to do honour to her guests, had arranged this small pavilion in the same way as when she inhabited it.

On the walls were a few engravings from the burin of her father, some water-colour sketches by herself, her books, and her piano. A good fire was blazing in the hearth, and its bright flames contrasted with the increasing obscurity. A square window, like that in Swiss cottages, with cross lead-work and small greenish glass, panes of glass about as big as a man's hand, through which was visible the path which led from the park-gate to the châlet. The door was left half open; Bertha, standing near the mantel-piece, leaned her head on her hand, unable to subdue the emotion that affected her; Arnold, as joyous as a child, or rather a lover, was examining with a kind of tender curiosity all the little ornaments, &c., with which Bertha was usually surrounded.

"What happiness for me," he said, "to be able to carry with me the remembrance of the spot you inhabit! This picture will be for ever present to my imagination. Here is your piano, the friend of long hours of reverie and sadness; those fine engravings, your father's productions, on which you have so often fixed your softened eyes, by engaging yourself in thought so near to him in his modest retreat."

"Yes, no doubt," said Bertha, abstractedly; "but what ails me? I know not wherefore, but my ideas run in a sinister circle. Do you know of what I was just thinking? Of those attempts at murder which you have so miraculously escaped. Has any thing fresh occurred? Have you been able to trace those criminal attempts?"

M. de Hansfeld held at this moment a volume of Victor Hugo's "Ballads" in his hand, and was curiously scrutinising the book at a page marked by Bertha.

He turned partly round without closing the book, and said to the young lady, with a smile of singular calmness,—

"I believe I have discovered this murderer;" then he added, "What pleasure to read the lines which have attracted my eyes, my sister!"

"You have discovered then?" cried Bertha.

"I think so; you have passed yesterday and to-day with the homicidal individual." Then again interrupting himself, "How delighted I am to see that you share my admiration for that charming ballad the Grand-Mère—one of the most touching inspirations of the illustrious poet! You have amongst others marked those verses of such enchanting simplicity, which I love as you love them."

Bertha believed she was in a dream when she saw the prince's sang froid.

"What do you mean?" she inquired,—"I have passed yesterday and to-day with the——"

"The murderess—yes. But listen how delicious those verses are—poor, dear, little children!"

"Grand Dieu!" exclaimed Bertha, interrupting Arnold, "what, then, it is your wife who is guilty of those attempts at murder? Yet you told me——"

"It is not my wife," replied the prince, replacing the book on the shelf; "but, unless I am deceived, it is her infernal attendant, the young girl with the copper skin."

"Iris?"

"Iris, I am all but certain."

"And your wife?"

"Was ignorant of all, I am most anxious to believe."

"And you keep this monster near you—in your house! Suppose she were to renew her attempts?"

"Well!" said Arnold, with a smile, at the same time so melancholy, so calm, so sweet, that the tears started to Bertha's eyes.

"What mean you by 'well?'" she exclaimed; "and if—but the idea is too horrible!"

"If she should recommence her experiments, my dear sister, and she succeeds, I shall be grateful to her."

"What do you mean?"

"To be frank, what is my life henceforth? During these few days passed near to you, the delight of the present will prevent me from thinking of the future; but when these are passed—one of two things—either we shall be happy, and, in spite of your indifference for your husband, my happiness will cost you many tears, much remorse, noble and true as you are; and thus my love will cause you as much chagrin as the cruelties of your husband have excited. If, on the contrary, circumstances compel us to separate, what remains? Forgetfulness? In spite of oaths always to remember each other, alas! there is something more horrible than the death of those we love, that is, the forgetfulness of their death! Thus you see, what a future! With you there could never have been but one way possible for your happiness and mine—that was to marry. But that is a dream! Well, then, would it not be better that this gipsy girl, kind and anticipating, should be for me a sort of death-dealing providence, and should make of me what I confess I could never, perhaps, have the courage to make of myself—something that has lived!"

"Oh, what you say is horrible! But with what motive could she have attempted this crime?"

"How can I divine? I never did her any wrong, but have always been most kind towards her. But the Bohemians are so strange! A superstition!—a nothing!—how can I tell? The poor wretch, perhaps, does her feelings great violence to carry on her machinations; but, after this week, I shall be very ready to meet her designs half way."

At this moment the door closed suddenly. Bertha uttered a shriek of alarm.

"Who has shut the door?"

"The wind," said Arnold.

The key turned twice in the lock.

"They are locking us in," exclaimed Bertha.

Arnold rushed to the door—shook it—but in vain.

"Alas! I am lost! It is nearly night, and shut up here with you, at the end of the park!"

"But the window!" cried Arnold.

He hastened to it. He looked out, and saw no one.

He tried to break it. Impossible! The lead-work was so close that it bent, but did not break, and the window was in a fixed and immovable frame. That which lighted the door at the farther end was similarly fastened.

"Mon Dieu! have mercy upon me!" said Bertha, falling upon her knees.

CHAPTER XLVIII

THE DOUBLE MURDER

Iris, concealed in the path, had followed Bertha and Arnold from the beginning of their conversation until they entered the châlet. The thick clumps of box and holly concealed the Bohemian from all eyes. It was she who had started the kid and made it dart forth in the path before Bertha. After having cautiously approached the pavilion, Iris closed and double-locked the door, and then, triumphant, went to seek De Brévannes, who was waiting for her at some distance.

If chance had not served the diabolical design of Iris in bringing Bertha and Arnold together, she would have had recourse to the ruse she had planned for inducing Bertha to go to the châlet under the pretext of meeting Pierre Raimond.

De Brévannes was armed with a double-barrelled gun, and dressed in a shooting costume. The selection of that weapon took away every idea of premeditation; and nothing could be apparently more natural than his conduct. On returning from his sport he had surprised his wife and M. de Hansfeld shut up together in a lone pavilion at nightfall: he killed them. Who could say there was no guilt in their interview? No one. Who could say that the door was closed on the outside? No one.

In spite of his resolution, De Brévannes shuddered at the sight of Iris. The decisive moment had arrived. The Bohemian dissembled her ferocious joy, and said to him in a tone of deep grief,—

"I have followed them unsuspected, as I have done by your orders ever since they came here. They are talking in a low tone, and their lips almost touched. He had his arm round your wife's waist; they suddenly entered the chalet, and then I closed the door, and came to you."

De Brévannes made no reply; there was nothing heard but the jarring click of the two locks of his gun as he primed them, and his hasty steps as they trampled on the dry leaves which bestrewed the avenue.

The night was dark. It was nearly a quarter of an hour's walk to the pavilion.

We should say at this moment that this man was as much excited to the murder by the fury of jealousy as the infamous and mad calculations of killing De Hansfeld that he might subsequently marry his widow. He believed Bertha and the prince to be guilty. At this moment De Brévannes was drunk with passion, and his temples throbbed with agony.

After a longish walk he saw at the end of the path the faint reflection thrown by the flames of the fire in the châlet through the window trellised with lead. He quickened his pace. The rain and hail fell in torrents.

As he approached the pavilion, he felt himself alternately bathed in a cold perspiration, or burning with all the fire of fever. At length he arrived, advancing slowly and with caution, and looked in at the green window.

By the expiring light of the fire he recognised the kind of white cloak, with a hood to it, that Bertha usually wore. Seated on a cushion, the young lady's back was to him. She was pressing her lips on the forehead of a man kneeling at her feet, with both his arms round her.