"Oh, bless you! there are plenty of other things quite as strange in that singular household! Well, as I expected, back came Mademoiselle Iris to tell me, very politely, I was a liar, and that she had never been near me to order any lace. The chasseur kept close by; but that did not prevent my saying, in a very quick, low tone, to the mulatto, 'I have something very particular, indeed, to say to you; it concerns the life or death of a man. To-morrow and the following evenings, I shall be from dusk on the Quai d'Anjou, near the little garden gate; there I shall wait until you come.'—You perceive, M. Charles, 'the life or death of a man is at stake!' That's the right way to put it. Those words would rouse the curiosity of any young person, let the colour of her skin be what it might!"

"And what reply did the mulatto make?"

"Oh, she said quite snappishly (but I was prepared for that), that she did not understand what I was talking about, and that I had monstrously the air of an old intrigante; after which she turned to the dandyfied chasseur, and said, pointing to me, 'Remember, this woman is not to be permitted to enter the Hôtel again.' Upon which, the monkeyfied lacquey, with a significant gesture, pointed towards the door. I took up my box of patterns, my bag, and other little etceteras, and trotted down the stairs with all the agility of fifteen! And so ended my second day! You perceive every thing was going on as well as could be wished."

"Not quite so well!"

"How do you mean? Do you forget that a positive meeting had been arranged with the blackamoor, by telling her a man's life depended on it?"

"Still, the girl herself had decidedly refused to attend the meeting."

"Lord have mercy on you, M. Charles! Well! you do downright astonish me, at your age and with your experience, to make such an observation! Well, I declare, you surprise me, you do! Now, just look here; if I had merely said, 'To-morrow, I shall be at the little garden gate, to communicate to you some very interesting information,' the mulatto might, very easily, have restrained her curiosity till the next day, and the day after would have been too late. But, take notice; I kept the thing alive, by saying, 'To-morrow, and every other evening, I shall be there.' Thus, you see, I gave her full time to fall a prey to her own impatience to find out what secret could possibly be concerned in the affair!"

"Very fairly reasoned."

"Now, a saint—a positive saint could not resist the desire of wishing to ascertain whether I should come each cold winter night to take up my station at the garden gate; if I did, the secret involved thereby must certainly be one of first-rate importance—certainly something as momentous as the life or death of a man must be at stake. Now, do you believe there ever was a saint, at least, a female one, who could have heard that a man's life was in danger without immediately wishing to know all about it—all the whys and whereabouts?"

"Ah, Madame Grassot, I crave pardon and yield to your superior judgment. You are, indeed, a first-rate tactician; and I bow, in all deference, to your skill. Your last stroke was a master-piece of politic wisdom!"

"I think so, indeed!"

"Pray, go on."

"Next day, about four o'clock, I took a hackney-coach, with a bottle of hot water, to keep my feet warm, as my duty might be a long one; then, wrapping myself up warm, I said to the coachman, 'Drive to the Quai d'Anjou, and stop at the last little gate on the right hand!' I was quite persuaded my tawny friend would not make her appearance. Well, there I stopped until nine o'clock, almost frozen to death. Nothing or nobody came near me."

"And the next day?"

"There you are again, M. Charles! so impatient, can't wait to have things related in proper order! Well, the same thing went on the next day. I went again in a coach, stopped before the little gate, the lamps of which shewed a light bright as day. About seven o'clock in the evening, the gate near which I had taken my station was suddenly opened, and as quickly shut; however, that was so much in my favour, as it shewed that the curiosity of the mulatto was at work, and would, finally, bring her to the point I desired. Still, to my extreme surprise, the day following produced nothing. There I sat in my coach, till I was nearly frozen; but, after waiting till half-past ten o'clock, I returned home almost disheartened. However, yesterday evening made up for all my former disappointments."

"Quick, then, tell me what occurred; for I, too, have need of being recompensed for all the tedious particulars you have made me listen to."

"So, you are unpatient, are you, M. Charles? Ah! I don't believe there ever was your equal for an unpatient gentleman. Well, come, I'll not play with your feelings. So, then, last night, when I stopped at the same spot, I found I was waited for; for, scarcely had I drawn up to my usual place, when the small side gate opened, and the blackamoor, wrapped up in a large cloak, came out as far as the threshold of the door. I let down the window of the coach, and she immediately approached and inquired whether the lace-dealer were there? Poor innocent lamb! 'Yes, my pretty dear,' answered I, ''tis the person you expect, and no other; but, if you would just step into the coach a minute, we could converse much more at our ease.' 'Oh, no, indeed I dare not do such a thing,' answered the poor frightened young creature. However, after an infinite number of yeses and noes, hesitation and refusal, which I will excuse you from being troubled with, she, at last, consented to come into the coach. I bade the coachman walk quite gently round the Isle; and we set forth, the poor girl trembling so excessively, that I had all the trouble in the world to tranquillise her. I am a famous good judge of such articles, and I declare I consider the mulatto as one of the most timid, yet proud-minded, and sensitive young contrivers that ever took part in a plot."

"Well, well, and when you had her within side the carriage, what then?"

"'You told me, madam,' said she at length, 'that you had something of importance to communicate to me; and that the life or death of a man was at stake!' You see, M. Charles, those words were sure to work a due effect. 'I did, indeed, my sweet young lady, but don't alarm yourself, since the secret alluded to does not refer to you, but to your amiable and excellent mistress, whom you so tenderly love—at least, as I believe you do.' 'Oh, indeed, madam, I do most ardently reverence and adore my honoured mistress.' 'And you would not, willingly, occasion her the slightest uneasiness, I doubt not?' said I. 'Certainly, I would not,' answered my companion. 'Well, then, my dear child, all I can say is, that, without intending it, you are preparing the way for much future distress and sorrow to your mistress by not putting her in the right way to prevent a very grievous misfortune.' 'How so, madam?' 'Ah, my dear, an unfortunate young man,—but I cannot say more at present; but, indeed, my child, this poor gentleman is much, very much, to be pitied; if you will only let him speak for himself, he will come instead of me to-morrow evening in a coach, and wait for you at the little side gate, he will then tell you the whole history and explain every thing.' 'Oh, no, indeed,' exclaimed my timid acquaintance, 'I never would do such a thing; I should never have sufficient courage to meet a stranger in that way.' 'But, suppose it referred to matters of first-rate importance to your mistress?' 'Then,' rejoined the simpleton, 'I will speak to her excellency, the princess, on the subject, and request to know her pleasure.' 'Have a care,' said I, solemnly, 'how you breathe a word of the affair; listen, first, to what the poor young man says; and, if he fails to interest you, it will be quite useless mentioning it to your mistress. There would, indeed, be one very excellent way of arranging the matter, and that would be, for her Excellency to accompany you to-morrow night. Nay, nay, my good girl, do not look so very much shocked and alarmed at my hinting at such a thing; the communication to be made is of the most honourable description. Don't run away with the idea that it is merely to listen to some love story, that I ask you to permit the unhappy young man to tell his own tale; depend upon it, a person at my time of life has no taste for mixing themselves up with such follies as that. No, no; the present affair relates to the saving the life of a truly unfortunate individual. However, as I said before, I must not enter into any further explanation at this moment. Grant the meeting I ask of you; and, if you see any necessity for it, you may even apprise the princess of your having done so.' 'And may I also acquaint the prince?' inquired the simpleton."

"Why, the girl must be a fool, or a knave, to hint at such a thing!"

"I must own, M. Charles, that, at these words, I rather regretted having gone so far; but I soon felt convinced, that the niaiserie just uttered arose entirely from the almost childish ignorance of my companion, who appeared to me scarcely more than sixteen years of age. At last, after an infinity of trouble, accompanied with all sorts of arguments and backed by many promises, I got her to agree to meet you in the same manner she had done me; that is to say, you will wait for her, in a coach, at the little garden gate."

"This evening?"

"No, to-morrow. She told me her mistress was not going out to-night; but that to-morrow she would be going to the Opera, and that you might, therefore, be at the small door in the garden about nine o'clock. Now, M. Charles, the rest is your affair. I have brought you into communication with the girl, and, in some degree, with the mistress also; for, simple and ingenuous as the young mulatto evidently is, she is quite sure to relate all that has passed to her mistress. So that, should the girl keep her appointment with her mistress's sanction, I should say you are on the highroad to success; but if, on the contrary, the blackamoor does not meet you, then, I should decidedly pronounce it a bad sign."

"Mother Grassot, you are an incomparable woman! Here, hold your hand; take these five louis to pay for your coach-hire."

"Oh, really, really, monsieur, you are too generous: well, if you insist, certainly. Is there any thing else I can do for you?"

"Not that I recollect. Just tell me, have you asked your second-floor lodger to quit his apartments, telling him I wish to have the whole of this little house to myself?"

"Lord bless me, what a memory I have! I quite forgot to name to you that I have spoken to the person, and he says he has no manner of objections to turn out provided you give him 1000 francs as a recompense."

"The fellow must be mad! why, he scarcely pays 400 francs a-year for his lodging."

"I fought very hard with him; but I could not make him give way the least in the world!"

"Why, it is regularly picking my pocket!"

"So it is; but there is no help for it; you will have to give him what he asks, and he will quit immediately: in four-and-twenty hours he will be out of the house, bag and baggage."

"Well, here then! here is a bank-note for 1000 francs, and another for 500 francs; you will pay six months in advance, and account to me for the rest."

"Ah, sir, you will find yourself ever so much more quiet and comfortable when you have all the house to yourself. As for me, I shall not feel a bit more timid, although we have got no porter;—but la! I never dreaded thieves, no, nor ghosts either, for that matter."

"And, besides, though this neighbourhood is somewhat lonely, it is a very safe one."

"And there is the soldier on duty, at the corner of the street, who can watch our house as he sits in his sentry-box."

"Now, then, my good Madame Grassot, make quick work with your second-floor lodger, pack him off as soon as possible. I long to have the place all to myself."

"By the day after to-morrow, I pledge myself you shall find no one here. Well, good luck to us all! I know whom I should like to see occupy this house as soon as the second-floor lodger has left. But I know, monsieur, and I feel sure it will be as I wish some of these days; without my reminding him, when once monsieur determines to do a thing handsome, he never forgets, never——"

"You are a regular flatterer, Madame Grassot," cried M. de Brévannes, as he complacently smiled upon his emissary, and quitted the small dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs.

After having awaited the following evening with much impatience he arrived about eight o'clock on the Quai d'Anjou; it was a fine clear winter's night; the cold was sharp and biting, and the moon shone out in all the brilliancy of a frosty sky. After awaiting some little time, the little door opened, and Iris, closely muffled up, appeared at its entrance. M. de Brévannes had left his vehicle at some little distance, he therefore hastened towards the young mulatto, who, trembling violently, took his arm.

CHAPTER XXI

THE INTERVIEW

"In the first place," said M. de Brévannes, endeavouring to slip a purse of gold into the hand of the mulatto, "take this, my good girl, for your own trouble."

Iris, however, indignantly rejected the propitiatory offering, saying, in a tone of offended pride, "You are evidently under some mistake, monsieur."

"Nay," said M. de Brévannes, trying to force it upon her acceptance, "nay, accept it as a feeble mark of my esteem."

"Esteem!" responded the mulatto with an expression of ironical contempt so unequivocally displayed, that M. de Brévannes, perceiving his error, returned his purse into his pocket, saying, "I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to the young person acting as companion to the Princess de Hansfeld?"

"You are perfectly correct, sir?"

"May I ask whether you have held that situation long?"

"Very long."

"Doubtless ever since her journey to Florence, whither she went in company with her aunt?"

"You are right."

"The female I sent to speak to you has, I presume, acquainted you with the fact of my having matters of the utmost importance to communicate to the princess?"

"She stated as much to me."

"Have you acquainted Madame de Hansfeld with the visits of this person, or with the interview you have been kind enough to grant me?"

"I have not."

"And, no doubt, you have observed equal silence as regards the prince?"

"I never converse with his excellency."

"Your motive in meeting rare, therefore, this evening, was merely——"

"To ascertain what you had to communicate to my mistress, and to apprise her of it if I should deem it advisable."

"You are so extremely young, that I can scarcely judge how far you may be in the confidence of Madame de Hansfeld."

"Your best way to prevent any error on your part will be to apply to the princess herself."

"The very thing I was going to ask you to assist me in doing. Put me in the way of seeing and speaking to the princess: that is all I desire."

"That permission must be accorded by my mistress herself."

"Whatever price you may set on this service, I am prepared to pay it."

"I can do nothing without the knowledge and concurrence of the princess."

"Give her this letter."

"Impossible."

"There is nothing in it at all objectionable. I have merely said, that having matters of the deepest importance to communicate to her, I venture to implore the favour of being instructed how to convey a letter into her hands without fear of its being intercepted."

"Then your letter is useless for the present. I will repeat to her what you say; and if she thinks proper to grant your request, I will let you know. What is your name and address?"

"My name is Charles de Brévannes: here is my card. You understand me; do you not? Remember Charles de Brévannes."

"I shall remember."

"Is that name quite unknown to you?"

"Quite."

"Has Madame de Hansfeld never pronounced it in your hearing?"

"Never."

Irritated by the reserve maintained by the mulatto, M. de Brévannes determined to try a fresh mode of attack. "My dear girl," said he, "it is useless for me to attempt concealing any thing from you. 'Tis true I have most interesting communications to make to Madame de Hansfeld; but," added he, with an insinuating tone of voice and almost tenderness of manner, "I have something equally important to say to you also."

"To me?"

"Indeed I have. I saw you the other day as you passed through the Rue Saint Louis, and I found you far too charming for my peace of mind."

This speech appeared to have taken effect, for the mulatto hung her head, but spoke not.

"The girl is probably more vulnerable on the score of personal vanity than assailable by gold," thought M. de Brévannes. "I will just try the effect of a few soft flattering words."

"Yes, my dear girl, from that hour my anxiety to obtain an interview has been redoubled. In the first place, I longed to tell you how deep and ineffaceable an impression you had made on my heart; and in the second place, to speak with you respecting those important matters which are for the princess's ear."

"You are jesting, sir?"

"No, I am not. I might have found other means of effecting my communication with the princess; but I preferred addressing myself to you. Your expressive features announced so much intelligence, mingled with passions both ardent and generous, that I felt persuaded that in speaking to you of the mistress you love, and the affection with which you have inspired me, you would not be wholly deaf to my suit, dearest Iris."

"You know my name?"

"I do; and many other things you may suppose me unacquainted with. Ah! how could it be otherwise, when you alone have long engrossed my every thought? Believe me your sincere attachment to Madame de Hansfeld has but tended to increase the fervour of my regard for you."

"I must not listen to this language," said Iris, in a tone that betrayed considerable emotion.

"Victoria!" said De Brévannes mentally; "the game is won. This poor simpleton is like all her sex, unable to resist a little well-applied flattery, mixed with a few professions of everlasting affection. Madame Grassot was right; she is but a child in years or understanding."

"Why do you retire so far from me, my pretty Iris?" continued the seducer; "let me hold your hand, and support your trembling steps."

"No; I can stay no longer: I have business that requires my presence within doors."

"I cannot suffer you to depart. I have scarcely said a quarter of what I wished to say."

"Then let me beg that our conversation may be entirely confined to the princess."

"I am most desirous it should; only for that purpose it is essential that we should repose the most perfect confidence in each other; by that means, and by acting in strict concert, we may be enabled to prevent the most fearful calamities."

"What mean you? Would the princess risk——"

"Fear not, lovely Iris; if you will aid me, these evils, however threatening, may be dispelled. With such an ally as yourself, nothing would be impossible; and, upon reflection, it seems to me that if once you and I come to a right understanding on the subject, it will be better just for the present not to inform the princess of what we are endeavouring to effect."

"And wherefore should she be kept in ignorance of what so much concerns her to know?"

"She might not be enabled to impose sufficient command on herself, and her very apprehensions might endanger the success of the projects I wish to work out for her good."

"But what good can I do in the matter? Why is it so indispensable that you and myself should become such confidants?"

"I will explain; but, in the first place, you must candidly answer the questions I shall put to you. Will you engage to do so?"

"Alas! I seem as though you exercised some spell or fascination over my actions; although nearly a stranger to me, you seem to have inspired me with sufficient confidence in your words to do whatsoever you ask me."

"Because I speak the pure language of truth, and that ever reaches the heart."

"Oh no, no; I must not believe you. That female you sent so continually to seek me—so many artifices tried with such untiring perseverance to gain the ear of a simple girl like me, must conceal some deep, some hidden design."

"Let my extreme anxiety to obtain an interview with you for the sake of revealing the passion with which you had inspired me, and of carrying out my good intentions to save and serve your honoured mistress, plead my excuse for having had recourse to such modes of accomplishing the two dearest wishes of my heart. Will you not accept my plea, dearest Iris?"

"Perhaps I am wrong to do so; after having made me grant you an interview, even against my own judgment, I ought doubly to mistrust you."

"Madame Grassot is certainly a clever reader of countenances," thought M. de Brévannes. "It is scarcely possible for a young person to exhibit more perfect silliness and childish simplicity than my dark friend here." However he did not deem it advisable to allow the prudent reflections of the mulatto to proceed further, as, hastily interrupting her, he said, with every appearance of earnest sincerity, "Why reproach yourself for what you have done? Our interview is based upon the purest and most praiseworthy motives; besides, remember, dear Iris, that far from yielding a ready assent to my prayers, you long hesitated ere you would bless me with the meeting which now renders me so happy."

"Are you then happy?"

"How can I be otherwise? When you are beside me, and your arm gently locked in mine?"

"Let me beseech you to speak only of the princess."

"Ah! now 'tis you who wish her to form the subject of our conversation."

"'Tis fitting you should converse of that which brought you hither."

"Then must I talk of you, dear Iris; or if that theme be forbidden me, indulge the dear delight of being near you, and silently enjoy the pleasure of walking by your side."

"No; each minute I stay serves but to convince me you are deceiving me: let me return to the house. You had nothing to communicate to the princess, I feel persuaded; and are merely laying a snare to entrap me into some danger."

"If even it were so?"

"Why, then, it would be base and wicked to endeavour to harm a poor weak girl like me. Let me go, I say; I must and will return home."

"Come, come. Iris—be calm. What use is there in my speaking to you of Madame de Hansfeld, if you will not answer the questions I must unavoidably put to you?

"I would much rather hear you speak of my mistress than address such language to me."

"Well, then, let us talk only of Madame de Hansfeld. Tell me, is it not above a week ago since she accompanied her husband to the Théâtre Français?"

"It is. I remember it the more particularly, because it was the first occasion of the prince's having gone out for a long while."

"And you, charming Iris, remained probably all alone at the Hôtel. Ah! had I but known it, what happiness would it not have afforded me to have been permitted to share your solitude with you!"

"Speak only of the princess, or I leave you."

"Pardon me for forgetting your former wishes. In what state did your mistress appear to you on her return from the theatre?"

"At first she seemed very uneasy, for the prince did not entirely recover from his indisposition for more than an hour after his return to the Hôtel."

"Iris, what splendid eyes you have!—and what a beneficent moon we have that shews them to double advantage when compared with her own pale rays!"

"Have you nothing further to ask me, or tell me, respecting her excellency?"

"And I suppose, when once reassured as to her husband's health, Madame de Hansfeld resumed her ordinary state of calmness and composure?—What a lovely hand yours is, Iris!—and how small!"

"Leave off these foolish compliments, I desire. What good is there in your asking me questions, when you pay not the slightest attention to the answers I make you?"

"Now you shall see how attentive I will be. You are right: matters of the most vital import are at stake, and it is almost in spite of myself, that I yield to the fascinations with which you surround me. But now, then, go on—tell me of the princess?"

"Far from becoming tranquil, when the state of the prince no longer excited her apprehensions, her agitation appeared to increase. I attended her as usual, with the rest of her women, but she dismissed them all but me; then, when we were alone, she wept. Oh! how bitterly she wept!"

"Did she, indeed?"

"And even I could scarcely restrain my tears."

"She seemed very angry, did she, Iris?"

"Angry? oh! no; on the contrary, she appeared heart-broken and miserable—raising her clasped hands towards heaven, as if to implore mercy, while her tears flowed down her pallid cheeks. About an hour after midnight she bade me call her attendants to undress her, but as soon as they had done so, and she found herself again alone with me, instead of retiring to bed, she sat down to her writing-table, and began to write in a sort of private memorandum-book. I have observed she always writes after any thing extraordinary has happened. I ventured to express my fears that she would over-fatigue herself, but she replied that, on the contrary, writing was the sole occupation which would have the effect of calming her mind. About four o'clock in the morning I left her; but long after that I could perceive the light still burning in her chamber. Upon entering softly, I found her still occupied in writing."

The account of the mulatto (who by the way fabricated the history of the private memorandum-book and the extreme despondency of the princess) became of inestimable value to M. de Brévannes, who flattered himself that his unexpected presence had occasioned all the agitation, anxiety, and distress evinced by the princess—he was not aware of Madame de Hansfeld having previously recognised him at the Opera-ball, and his greatest wonder was to find her more afflicted than irritated by their meeting.

M. de Brévannes was not only egotistical and obstinate, but also singularly vain, and, spite of all the coolness, even amounting to aversion, manifested by Madame de Hansfeld towards him when in Italy, he had never despaired of winning her love; his fatal duel, in compelling him to quit, had neither extinguished his selfish passion nor destroyed his insensate hopes of ultimate success, and frequently did he mentally assure himself, that but for his flight, rendered necessary by the rigour of the Italian laws, he should certainly have succeeded in gaining the heart of Paula Monti by the very violence of his passion, and through the excesses even to which its ardour impelled him, and have easily won her to forget the very name of Raphael, who, after all, had forced the quarrel upon him.

Vanity is at least as blind as love itself, and M. de Brévannes, being as vain as love-stricken, felt a gleam of hope in learning that the princess had witnessed his re-appearance more in sorrow than in anger; and he farther dwelt with considerable interest on the fact as related to him by Iris. If Paula having passed her midnight hours after what he erroneously supposed her first surprise at seeing him in writing long passages in a book devoted, it would seem, to the reception of her most private thoughts and occurrences, doubtless this volume contained every particular relative to the death of Raphael as well as the circumstances which led to it, and then he too, Brévannes, must likewise figure in its pages.

To obtain possession of this book, and thereby surprise, as it were, the most hidden and secret thoughts of Madame de Hansfeld, became now the ruling desire of M. de Brévannes, but in proportion as the wish became more predominant, so did his fears of failure begin to agitate his mind, and thus he deemed it more prudent not to appear to attach any importance to the narrative Iris with all the simplicity of a child had just confided to him.

Surprised at his long silence, the mulatto at length inquired, of what he was so intently thinking?

"Ah, Iris! 'tis your fault; in your presence I cannot command my thoughts, try as I will, they all fly to you and your dear image."

"What! after promising me so faithfully not to think of any thing but my dear mistress?—And when I have not only answered every question you have put to me, but even told you more than I should have done. I scarcely believe you have heard a word I said."

"Oh, yes I have, every syllable, but then you see, Iris, I have only asked you such simple and innocent questions as could in no way compromise the princess, still I am not now at liberty to explain to you the motive I have in asking them. Ere long I may probably put others to you, but by that time, I trust to have established myself so firmly in your confidence, that you will place implicit confidence in all I say, and treat me as a second self."

"I must not promise to see you again; for why should I? I see but too plainly that you are only making use of me as a medium of correspondence between yourself and the princess. But what right have I to complain? Have not the unhappy ever been sacrificed to the happy, the rich, and the prosperous of this world?"

The almost imperceptible tone of bitterness with which Iris uttered these last words made M. de Brévannes start, and afresh idea found admission into his thoughts. What was more natural than that the humble dependant looked with eyes of jealousy upon her more fortunate mistress, and loathed each day more and more the hireling service she was called upon to pay?

Spite of the cunning and experience possessed by persons of the class to which M. de Brévannes belonged, they are almost invariably dupes of their own misplaced contempt for mankind in general, and their proneness to believe at all times rather in the bad than good inclinations of those with whom they have to deal; instead, therefore, of considering the mulatto as devoted to her mistress, and consequently observing a necessary degree of reserve, a single word, nay a mere inflection of the voice sufficed to impress M. de Brévannes with the idea that Iris envied the superior advantages possessed by her mistress, and might very probably be easily brought to act in direct hostility against her; and he the more readily adopted this hypothesis, as it chanced to accord perfectly with his own projects. It was of paramount importance to him to have about Madame de Hansfeld a person wholly devoted to himself, who would be restrained by no scruple or prevented by no tie of gratitude, from executing whatever orders he might give, or assisting in any scheme he might devise. Anxious, however, to be well assured of the reality of his surmise, he said to Iris, in a feigned tone of the tenderest interest,—

"You are happy—quite happy in your present situation; are you not, my dear girl?"

The mulatto was as skilful a tactician as himself, and perfectly comprehended the import of a question she had so adroitly managed to elicit; she made no reply at first, but sighed heavily, then, after a prolonged pause, said,—

"Oh yes, very happy indeed! And even if I were not, what good would it do me to complain?"

Then abruptly disengaging herself from M. de Brévannes, she hastily ran towards the little side-gate, which had remained half open all the time they had been talking.

Astonished at this sudden flight, M. de Brévannes followed her, saying,—

"But, at least, do not leave me without fixing when I shall see you again?"

"I know not," replied she.

"But I cannot, let you go until you have appointed some time; will you say the day after to-morrow at the same hour as before?"

"Perhaps—but no, no—not again—I am sufficiently wretched already;" and with these words the garden gate shut M. de Brévannes out from all further communication with the mulatto. M. de Brévannes accordingly returned homewards, inexpressibly delighted with the result of his first interview with Iris, who, on her side not less satisfied with her recent meeting, hastened to Madame de Hansfeld, to whom she related every word that had transpired, reserving, however, certain details for the better furtherance of a diabolical project which had recently sprang up within her breast.

CHAPTER XXII

THE MEETING

A few days after the meeting we have recorded between Iris and M. de Brévannes, just as the hour of four o'clock sounded forth from the church of Saint Louis, a fog, rendered more intense by the proximity of the two arms of the Seine which surround the Ile Saint Louis, spread itself over this unfrequented spot.

To about the height of the ancient Hôtel de Brétonvilliers, then being pulled down, the Quai d'Orleans, as yet unprotected by a parapet, formed a steep mound which bordered the river on this side.

An individual, wrapped in a cloak, was slowly pacing along this ledge, stopping occasionally to observe the rapid current of the Seine, now swollen by the rains of winter. The wild and lonely spot was buried in its accustomed gloom and silence, while the rapidly increasing mist entirely concealed the opposite banks of the river, and, half veiling the dilapidated walls of the Hôtel de Brétonvilliers, communicated to them an almost grand and sublime aspect—the lofty walls, partly destroyed, with the occasional gaps left by the places which had once contained the arched windows, casting their dark time-coloured masses in bold relief against the grey sky, imparted almost the appearance of vast and imposing antique ruins.

The person we have mentioned seemed to find a melancholy pleasure in contemplating this solitary spot, as, with head bent forwards on his breast, he continued to walk up and down the mound, pausing, from time to time, to listen to the rush of waters, or to follow, with fixed gaze, the rapid flow of the current, as it pursued its boiling course.

His reveries were suddenly interrupted by the sound of approaching steps; he looked up and beheld advancing towards him a man of more than the usual height, with a long white beard, and who, although walking with a firm step, kept occasionally sounding the road with his stick as though to satisfy himself as to the safety of the path he trod.

The fog had by this time become very dense, and the old man (in whom the reader will doubtless have recognised Pierre Raimond), whose sight was feeble and uncertain, instead of following the direction of the Quai, had considerably deviated to the right, and advanced close upon the personage in the mantle ere he was aware of his vicinity, while the latter, standing on the edge of the mound, by a natural impulse, drew aside to allow the new comer to pass.

But scarcely had Pierre Raimond reached the summit of the acclivity, than he lost his balance, slipped to the edge of the embankment and disappeared in the river, throwing out his arms and crying aloud for help.

All this occurred in much less time than is required to narrate it.

To strip himself of his cloak, plunge into the Seine, and save from death the unfortunate being who had just been precipitated into its depths, was the first thought of the Prince de Hansfeld, for he it was who in the cold and solitude of a winter's evening took his lone walk on this deserted quay, which, as the reader will recollect, adjoined the Hôtel Lambert.

Weak and feeble, though possessed of a highly nervous frame, Arnold de Hansfeld felt, in the violent excitement of the moment, sufficient strength and energy to enable him, after the most incredible efforts, to grasp the sinking form of Pierre Raimond. The current was running so strong, that during the few seconds it took to effect the unhoped-for preservation of the old engraver, the two persons immersed were swept a considerable distance from the mound, and conveyed, most fortunately, to a level and accessible part of the shore, for the physical powers of M. de Hansfeld were wholly exhausted.

Preserving his habitual coolness amid the danger which threatened him, Pierre Raimond, instead (as is too frequently the case in such untoward circumstances) of paralysing the efforts of his preserver, facilitated the attempts to save him by every means in his power.

When M. de Hansfeld and Pierre Raimond were safely landed, the old engraver had in a manner to change places and become the preserver of him whose courageous act had saved himself from death; for to the factitious strength and feverish excitement which had hitherto sustained the prince succeeded the most perfect prostration, and he sank utterly insensible at the feet of the old man, ere the latter could pour forth the praises and blessings with which his heart was filled.

Night was fast approaching, and the deepening shades of twilight increased the effect of the thick fog which kept all objects wrapped in its dusky veil: in vain did Pierre Raimond shout aloud for help, his voice was lost amid the mingled roaring of the wind and waters; and had the weather been more propitious, it was a rare circumstance for any foot-passenger to pass those lonely quays after nightfall.

M. de Hansfeld shook with convulsive tremors, and it was but too evident that his slight and fragile frame must have been endowed with an almost superhuman courage to dare a peril its physical powers were so unequal to struggle against.

Still vigorous, and more than ordinarily robust for his age, the old engraver raised Arnold in his arms, as he would have done a child, and, carefully choosing his way, reached one of the landing-places conducting to the Quai. Pierre Raimond found himself exactly opposite his own house, situated at the corner of the Rue Poultier and the Quai d'Anjou.

Aided by his porter, the father of Bertha conveyed M. de Hansfeld into her apartment, and, spite of his veneration for the chamber of his daughter, he placed him there before an excellent fire.

As M. de Hansfeld regained his senses, he gazed around him with extreme astonishment.

"My preserver!" exclaimed the engraver, while large tears of gratitude trickled down his furrowed cheeks; "you have saved my life at the imminent hazard of your own; how shall I ever find words adequately to speak my thanks?"

"Where am I?" inquired Arnold de Hansfeld, striving to collect his ideas; "and who are you that speak to me?"

"Try to compose yourself, I pray, sir, while I relate to you what has happened. A short time since, deceived by the fog and my own imperfect sight, I got out of my right road, and found myself, without being aware of it, on the mound which forms an embankment to the river, opposite the spot where the Hôtel de Brétonvilliers is being pulled down, and, ere I could recover myself, I fell from the summit of the high path into the river, when, listening only to the generous devotion of your noble heart——"

"Ah, now I remember all," said the prince; "and I also recollect, that if my first thought was to endeavour to snatch you from the peril which menaced you, my second was to fear, lest my good intentions should prove fatal to you. I am so extremely weak, that you were probably obliged to defend yourself from my ill-managed efforts to preserve you, and even to save me yourself after my awkward endeavours to rescue you from danger," added M. de Hansfeld, with a smile full of sweetness.

"No, no, sir, I cannot have you undervalue your noble conduct in this way; like all brave and generous natures, you found sufficient power to back your efforts to preserve me from a certain death. Delivered from danger by you, it then became my turn to succour your feebleness, for it is very evident you have far more courage than strength. I therefore brought you hither; and you are now under the humble roof of him who owes his life to you, and who is well known in the neighbourhood as Pierre Raimond the engraver."

Just as M. de Hansfeld was about, in his turn, to declare his name and station, the chamber-door opened; at the sound Pierre Raimond turned suddenly round, and saw his daughter, who, pale and bathed in tears, her features distorted with grief, threw herself into his arms, exclaiming,—

"Father!—dearest father! will you not receive your poor child who has no shelter but in your arms?"

The abrupt entrance of Bertha, and the precipitation with which she threw herself into her father's arms as he turned towards her, had so entirely concealed M. de Hansfeld from her, that she was not aware of there being a third person in the apartment.

"He has driven me from him,—sent me from his roof," murmured Bertha, in a voice half-stifled with sobs, as she still kept her arms tightly twined round the neck of her father.

"My child," said the old man, in a low voice, "we are not alone."

A feeling of inexpressible joy shot through the frame of M. de Hansfeld at the sight of Bertha, whom he easily recognised as the young and lovely female who had made so vivid an impression on him at the theatre—an impression which had since assumed the form of an ideal, vague, and romantic passion.

It will be recollected, that the box in which the prince sat on the night in question was so dark, that, spite of Bertha's curiosity, she had not been able to obtain a view of him.

As Pierre Raimond pronounced the words, "We are not alone," his daughter, sinking with confusion, was hastening to the door, but the old engraver caught her by the hand, and, pointing to M. de Hansfeld, said,—

"My child, behold and bless the preserver of your parent!"

"What mean you, dearest father?"

"A little while ago, I lost myself in the fog, and, mistaking my road, fell into the river."

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Bertha, again throwing herself into her father's arms, and pressing him passionately to her heart, then gazed in his face with mute anxiety.

"This gentleman was accidentally on the Quai at the time," continued Pierre Raimond, "and generously saved my life, but his strength being entirely exhausted, I brought him hither."

"Ah, sir," cried Bertha, turning her expressive looks on the prince, "you have restored me my father at the very moment when I stand most in need of his tenderness and protection, and we, alas! can do nothing for you in return; but God will recompense you, and repay a debt far beyond our poor powers to discharge."

"Be assured, madame, that I am already more than paid in the happiness of finding I have been instrumental in preserving a father to his child."

"But, at least, permit us to know to whom we are so largely indebted," said Pierre Raimond.

"Yes, teach us what name to remember in the prayers we shall daily put up to heaven to invoke the blessing of the Almighty on your head," added Bertha.

"My name is Arnold,—Arnold Schneider," said M. de Hansfeld, blushing and with some hesitation.

Attributing this embarrassment to the extreme modesty of his preserver, the old engraver continued,—

"But where can I present my grateful thanks to him who has prevented my child from being fatherless?"

Again, a deep flush suffused the features of M. de Hansfeld, after a short pause he replied,—

"With your permission, my good sir, I will afford myself the gratification of calling occasionally to inquire after you, and thus receive the reward of what you are pleased to call my good actions."

"Nay, sir," said Pierre Raimond, "'tis not for me to insist, be it as you will. I can easily guess the feeling that makes you conceal your dwelling, and it may even be your real name, from us, but I honour and respect your reserve; only be generous enough to come and see me some times, since you will not permit me the gratification of offering up my grateful thanks at your own door. Promise me that you will come, and spare me even the appearance of ingratitude towards you."

"I do faithfully promise it, my worthy friend; but I feel quite recovered now; could you do me the favour to cause some conveyance to be sent for, by which I could return home? I will not longer trespass on your hospitality."

The porter being still in the chamber occupied by the engraver, Bertha went to despatch him in search of a coach. And ere many minutes had elapsed M. de Hansfeld had quitted the house of Pierre Raimond.

The old man, then exchanging his wet garments for dry clothing, returned to his unhappy daughter.

CHAPTER XXIII

UNHAPPINESS

As Bertha saw her father approach, she flew towards him, and wrapping her arms around him, she laid her head on his bosom saying,—

"Now, then, I may freely indulge my joy that I still behold you, after your being so nearly torn from me;—dear, dear father, the very idea of losing you seems too horrible for my brain to bear, and in my delight of thus knowing you safe, I seem unable to remember the peril you have run. But how was it, dearest father, that no whisper of my own heart warned me of your danger; surely a father cannot be snatched from his child, and no deadly shudder run through her veins to forebode that her heart-strings are about to be snapped asunder?"

"Calm yourself, my beloved child, Providence has taken pity on us; no foreboding was permitted to agitate your breast, because it was the will of a merciful Creator that my life should still be spared; you see," said Pierre Raimond, with a mournful smile, "that you are rendering me almost as superstitious as yourself; however, my daughter, let nothing ever make us unmindful of all we owe the generous stranger."

"Oh, never—never shall I cease to cherish the grateful recollection. I only fear, lest my ardent thankfulness to our unknown friend should be swallowed up in the deep joy I experience at still beholding you, my dear, my excellent father! for now," said Bertha, bursting into tears, "you are all I have in the world."

Pierre Raimond tenderly pressed the hand of his child within his own, and then said, in a tone of bitterness,—

"What fresh sorrows have you to relate, my poor girl?"

"He loves me no longer," said poor Bertha, weeping bitterly; "he hates me, and finds me a burden to him!"

"Oh, my predictions!" cried the old man, mournfully.

"Father, have pity on me!"

"Alas! my child, I meant it not reproachfully; it was but an involuntary cry of bitter triumph at finding how truly I foretold all this; my love for you did not mislead me as to the consequences of your marriage; but what fresh grievance have you met with?"

"You are aware, that after the painful scene which took place here the very day after our arrival in Paris, Charles's temper became daily more soured, especially after the evening we went to the theatre together. Up to that period he had observed some restraint, he had even expressed regret at having acted so harshly towards you; but from the date of that unfortunate visit to the play, I say unfortunate, because the very next day fresh miseries broke out for me."

"And yet you concealed them from me; wherefore did you not tell me when you came to visit me on Sunday?"

"I feared so much to grieve you, but now my strength is exhausted, I can bear no more. Oh, if you only knew,—if you but knew!"

"Take courage, my poor girl! take courage, explain yourself without fear; let your father know all."

"Indeed, I will. Well, dearest father, after the night of our being together at the play, my husband, who had hitherto been irritable and violent, became gloomy, sullen, and unkind. I scarcely ever saw him, he was out all day, and only returned late at night, or rather morning; at meal-time, he was silent and abstracted, two or three times he left the dinner-table ere the cloth was withdrawn, and went to shut himself up in his own room. If I questioned him upon the vexations he appeared to have, he coldly replied, that it did not concern me, and frowned so angrily, that I durst not mention the subject again. This morning, however, seeing him look more cheerful than usual, I ventured to remark, 'You seem better to-day, Charles, than you have been lately that is all I said, dear father,—indeed, indeed it is. I did not utter another syllable—on my honour, I said no more than that."

"Poor child! but go on!"

"Immediately his features became overcast, and he exclaimed in a bitter tone, 'What is the use of my being better? what have I to hope for? if I could only look forward to any thing better than the wretched life I lead! But when I see you for ever before my eyes like a chain, to which I am eternally bound. Oh, accursed was the day in which I was weak enough to make you my wife, and to fall, like a fool, into the snare you and your father had laid for me."

The old man repressed a movement of rage, then said in a firm voice, "And then, my child?"

"This reproach, so cruel and so unexpected, took from me all power of reply, and I burst into tears, my husband rose violently from his chair, exclaiming, 'Oh, what a bitter lot is mine! oh, my liberty—my liberty!' and yet Heaven knows I never intrude upon him in any way, and the only thing I ask of him is permission to come and see you."

"Oh, patience! grant me patience, Heaven!" cried the engraver, in a voice of forced calmness.

"Seeing him go on thus," resumed Bertha, "I exclaimed, 'Charles, do you wish to leave me? if I am a burden to you, say so!' 'Yes,' cried he furiously, 'yes, you are a nuisance, and a burden I am tired of enduring. I tell you, I hate and detest you!—you have constrained me to entangle myself in a marriage as absurd as inimical to my happiness, and never will I forgive you for it.' 'But,' said I, 'what have I done? and with what do you reproach me?' 'Oh, with nothing,' said he, 'you are too good a manager for that; you dare not betray me, because you know that, if you were, I would kill both yourself and your paramour; it is not virtue, which makes you respect your duty as a wife, but fear;' and with these words, he dashed out of the room; and your poor broken-hearted child has come to pour her sorrows into the bosom of her father, and to say," added Bertha, sobbing as though her heart would break, "that she has none to love her, or pity, or protect her, but her own beloved parent."

"There could be no other result," said Pierre Raimond; "that selfish heart, and haughty, obstinate spirit, were sure to make you pay dearly,—oh, how dearly one day or other, for the sacrifices he had imposed on himself in order to obtain your hand, for which he would then have paid any price. However, things cannot go on in this manner; you must see the propriety of my interfering to prevent this bad man from torturing the heart of my beloved child, who has behaved like an angel towards him: he shall not trample you under foot as the mere plaything of his whim and caprice!"

"But what will you do? how can you alter my husband's conduct?"

"Oh, make yourself perfectly easy, that I will compel a change on his part; thank God! I have still sufficient strength and energy left."

"For mercy's sake, dear father, let us have no violent scenes!"

"Fear not, my child, I shall oppose, not violence, but firmness to his tyranny and oppression; besides, I have both justice and reason on my side, and I stand up to defend the cause of my child: you see, Bertha, how quiet and composed I am! But, in the first place, we must quit this roof; fortunately I have lived so frugally upon what you made me accept, that I have managed to lay by a trifling sum, and that, added to the small amount the sale of my poor furniture will bring, will suffice to obtain my admission into Sainte Perine."

"Oh, dearest father! never, never."

"Bertha, my child, you know my opinion respecting those asylums, so fitly provided for and offered to honest poverty; and, besides, do you think, that under present circumstances I can accept the most trifling assistance from your husband?"

"Certainly not! Oh, not for worlds, after all those cruel and degrading reproaches!"

"Well, then, what must I do? how contrive to live?"

"Listen, father. Since the painful scene which occurred here some days since, when my husband presumed to taunt you with the aid he rendered you, I have reflected much and deeply on your situation, and I think I have found a good way to improve it, if you will only assist me."

"Speak, speak!"

"Alas! I am unfortunately as poor as yourself, but, thank God, I still possess the talent I received from you, and which formerly helped to support us; since my marriage it has been my only solace amid the many sorrows by which I have been surrounded, and now in this our day of trouble it will and shall be our resource."

"My beloved Bertha, what do you mean?"

"Charles has left me at liberty to devote to you every Thursday and Sunday morning, what is there to hinder me from receiving pupils here, as I used to do? I can attend to them in the little bed-room you have so carefully preserved, I will beg of some of my old pupils to procure me fresh ones; and to prevent my husband's pride from taking the alarm, I will give my lessons under my maiden name, and in this manner, my dearest father, I shall be able to prevent your wanting for any thing."

Pierre Raimond interrupted Bertha by tenderly pressing her in his arms.

"No, no, my dearest child," said he, "I cannot suffer you to add the fatigues of study and instruction to your other cares."

"Oh, but, dear father, on the contrary the occupation will be to me the most delicious consolation. Now, then, let us see, whether you can have the heart to refuse me, perhaps the only happiness I am able to enjoy!"

"No, my beloved child, I will not oppose your pious purpose, on the contrary your determination is good, and great, and worthy of yourself, to accept it is to appreciate it as such an act should be estimated."

"Then you consent?" cried Bertha, with inexpressible delight.

"I do, and this fresh mark of the elevation of your soul imposes on me more than ever the duty of insisting upon your husband treating you with proper respect, as well as evincing towards you the attention and care you require; and as certainly as my name is Pierre Raimond, I will not only demand, but obtain it!"

CHAPTER XXIV

DISCOVERY

Madame de Hansfeld, continuing to write to M. de Morville under an assumed name, had received several replies. One morning (some days after M. de Hansfeld had saved the life of Bertha de Brévannes' father) Iris, returning from the post-office, brought her mistress a letter.

The heart of the princess beat with joy as she recognised the writing of M. de Morville.

The letter was couched in these terms:—

"This is the sixth time I have written to my mysterious friend, whose consolations are so sweet and precious to me, and come so opportunely and gratefully to support me in the sadness into which an unhappy affection plunges me, that I hardly know how adequately to thank the tender interest thus developed. There is for me a singular charm in confidences so vague, and yet so exact, made to an unknown individual, who appreciates the state of my heart with such infinite delicacy. I have been struck with what you tell me as to the happiness of loving even without hope, even as one loves God for God's sake, and of finding in the sole devotion to the adored object a pure and unutterable felicity. Your thoughts on the subject are in all cases so like my own, and that even in their most incomprehensible shadowings, that, by dint of being astonished at them, there has occurred to me an idea, which is foolish, impossible, mad. That idea is that——But no, I dare not even write it to you, at least not before I have avowed to you another of my beliefs. I am firmly convinced, that two persons passionately enamoured of each other must have, as respects love, certain ideas absolutely similar; thus, in consequence of all my ridiculous imaginings, I am weak enough to conclude that you may be the woman I love so hopelessly, and who at a ball at the Opera said to me these words,—Faust and Childe Harold. That evening will never be banished from my memory."

As she read this passage, Madame de Hansfeld trembled and blushed deeply with surprise, delight, and confusion; and then continued reading with a palpitating heart:—

"Pardon me this absurd hope; if I am wrong, these words will be to you quite incomprehensible, if I am not deceived, it may yet suit you to agree that I have not guessed, and then you will reply to me that I am in error, and our correspondence will continue as it has done.

"Now by what presentiment—by what instinct have I been led to believe that these letters were written to me by you? I know not. Doubtless the presence of the beloved one manifests itself in all things and every where, even despite mystery apparently the most impenetrable. If we distinguish amongst a thousand voices the one adored, why should we not similarly recognise the mind, the thought of the woman we love? If I am not mistaken, this phenomenon is more easily explicable by the sincerity, than by the sagacity, of my love. Then, I implore you do not refuse me the only consolation which remains to me. I was nearly writing—to us. Think what happiness we might then anticipate from our correspondence, and, also, what absolute, blind confidence my singular discovery must give us both! Would it not say as much in favour of your love as of mine? You have not written me a word by which I could detect you, and yet I have discovered you. Oh! I beseech you reply to me! Yes, we may be still happy in spite of the insurmountable barrier which separates us. Believing I was not beloved by you, I have carefully avoided you, in the fear of still more increasing the chagrins of a passion already so unhappy; but if you participate it, why refuse me the happiness of frequently meeting you, though we remain in the eyes of the world strangers to each other? I have sworn not to cease to love you, that would be impossible; but I have sworn, even if you should reciprocate my love, never to attempt to urge you beyond the sacred bounds of your duties, and never to visit at your abode. Remaining faithful, as I would, to this oath, where should we do wrong? what should we have to fear? Are you not as much bound by your love as I am by my word,—a word from which I shall never be released until the day when I may aspire to your hand?

"But why enter on such details, if my heart has deceived me, if you are not you? One other word, if I have rightly guessed, I swear to you, on my honour, no one in the world has breathed a syllable to me which could make me suspect that it was you who wrote to me: this discovery is one of those miracles of love which are deemed impossible only by the impious and atheistical.

"L. de M."

After she had concluded this letter, Paula was, if we may use the expression, overwhelmed. This amazing proof of divination in love perplexed and delighted her at the same time. Must not that love be, indeed, surpassing in order to arrive at such a pitch of penetration?

Madame de Hansfeld justly believed De Morville incapable of a falsehood, and therefore gave herself up in all secure reliance to the intoxication of this letter, which she read many times with intense delight.

The princess involuntarily felt a shudder at the passage in which M. de Morville said so frankly, that he should be released from his oath when she became a widow.

For the first time in her life, Madame de Hansfeld had a thought which horrified her, and with which she reproached herself as a crime.

* * * * *

She sought, we may say, a refuge in those exalted sentiments with which De Morville's love inspired her, and, like him, saw a future of happiness in a pure and unknown attachment; at least it escaped from the coarse malignity of the world, and would keep hidden in the shade all its delicacy, all its bloom, all its perfume.

To write to De Morville frequently, see him occasionally, and know herself beloved by him, to repeat to him incessantly that she loved him, never to have to blush for this affection so passionately shared, what brilliant what dazzling hopes!

A light knock which she heard at her door recalled Madame de Hansfeld to herself, she shut up De Morville's letter in a secret drawer, and said,—

"Come in."

The door opened, and the Prince de Hansfeld entered his wife's apartment.

CHAPTER XXV

ANGUISH

The prince's countenance was cold and disdainful. It would have been scarcely credited, that his mild features, melancholy, and so perfectly juvenile in expression, could have lent themselves to such a demonstration of icy severity.

The princess looked at her husband with equal surprise and uneasiness. She had never seen him look thus. Arnold was pale and attired in black.

Anxious to conceal her embarrassment, Paula said to him,—

"Are you going out this evening, Arnold?"

"No, madame; I beg you to bestow on me a few moments."

"Most certainly."

"I have decided that we leave this hotel."

"As you please, sir; only after all the expense you have lately bestowed upon it——"

"That is my affair."

"I have not the slightest objection to move. I will even tell you frankly, that I should be delighted to quit this lone quarter which was your sole selection."

"I am so whimsical, so original; but what may appear to you, madame, more whimsical, more original still, is, that we shall leave this hotel the day after to-morrow."

"And whither shall we go to live, sir?"

"You will go to Germany."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"That you will go to Germany."

"You are joking—you must be."

"I have not the habit of doing so."

"In this case, sir, may I know your motive for quitting Paris so hastily in the depth of winter?"

"I do not leave Paris, madame, but you will quit Paris the day after to-morrow. In a month, probably, I shall rejoin you. I have resolved on this."

Madame de Hansfeld looked on the prince with amaze. He had often been angry and violent, but in the midst of his wrath, whose cause Paula in vain sought to fathom, there were bursts of excitement, cries of despair, which she pitied whilst they wounded her. Never in his life before had the prince spoken to her in so cold, severe, and cutting a tone. She replied, with a sort of fear caused by her surprise,—

"I hope, sir, that you will not insist on this journey when I tell you that it will be exceedingly disagreeable to me to quit Paris at this moment."

"You are mistaken, madame; you will go."

"Sir!"

"Madame, the day after to-morrow you will depart."

"I shall not depart!"

"Indeed!"

"Besides, I should be silly, indeed, to believe that you are speaking seriously to me; your ideas are sometimes so strange, your wishes so varying, that it would be worse than childish in me to disturb myself for this fresh fancy."

"It is of little consequence to me, madame, that you are or are not annoyed, so that you obey my desire."

"Obey! the word is somewhat harsh, sir."

"It is just."

"Then, sir, it is a command?"

"A command."

"If I were inclined to submit to it, at least you must confess it is somewhat tyrannical."

"I should be very indulgent to do so."

"Indulgent! And what have you to reproach me with, sir? Have I not been indulgent a thousand times to your fits and gusts of passion? have I not carefully concealed them from all the world? Have you not repeated to me a hundred times, that, although we lived beneath the same roof, I was free in all my actions? It is true that soon after you came all wretched to recall your words. But again I say, sir, I am wrong to reply to you; I am, no doubt, at this moment, like yourself, a dupe to your aberration of mind."

"I am mad, then, am I, as my whims seem to announce? Ah, it has not been your fault that these appearances, of which you were the sole cause, which I affected from compassion to you (you do not deserve that I should explain to you my meaning)—it has not been your fault, I repeat, that these appearances should indeed become reality! But I believed that, enlightened, at least, by these alternations of passion and horror——"

"Horror!" exclaimed the princess.

"Horror!" repeated the prince, coldly,—"I believed that you would have understood the enormity of your crimes, and the endurance of my infatuation which survived them. But, no; not even that! Happily for me at this moment that infatuation is over; your last blow has destroyed it. But the horror still endures—do you mark me?—the horror, I say——"

"I hear you—mon Dieu!—but I understand you not."

"I have loved you, you bear my name—thus this abominable secret shall remain buried between us. Go, then, in Heaven's name, depart, and thank me on your knees for being as forbearing as I am!"

Madame de Hansfeld looked at her husband with alarm; she had nothing to reproach herself with except her love for De Morville, and that love did not deserve the fearful reproaches with which the prince overwhelmed her. Yet he seemed perfectly in his senses; there was nothing wild in his look or his demeanour. Wishing to see if he would make any allusion to her love for De Morville, which by some inexplicable chance M. de Hansfeld might have detected, she said to him,—

"When I married you, sir, I told you frankly my heart was not free; I have loved—passionately loved. What I then said, I now repeat: I do not love you with passion,—but, before God who hears me, I have never been unfaithful to you!"

"Unfaithful to me!" exclaimed the prince; "that would be even commendable when compared with the crimes which you have committed."

"I!" cried Paula, clasping her hands with animation; "why such calumny is as infamous as it is absurd!"

"What! do you dare deny that yesterday evening——Ah! no never," exclaimed the prince, shuddering,—"never did machination more infernal emanate from human brain! I shook with fear as much as with surprise,—and you are not on your knees before me with supplicating hands, but stand as you are, calm and contemptuous—do you not know, madame, that there are judges and a scaffold?"

Paula at this moment trembled; until then she had only suffered by the singularities of M. de Hansfeld, only in his displays of anger, or rather desperate griefs. He had reproached her vaguely, and her reproaches were half averted by her recollections, but never had he brought against her, until this moment, an accusation so decided and so terrible.

The princess entirely believed that Arnold's reason wandered, whilst he mistook the princess's amazement for a tacit avowal, and said to her, in a voice more calm, but with profound and concentrated indignation,—