"You see, madame, that you must depart, not from regard to yourself, but from respect to my name; I shall be supposed to accompany you. I pass for a lunatic," he added, with a bitter smile, "and no one will be surprised at my sudden departure; I shall remain here under an assumed name. Except Madame de Lormoy, and a man who is known to her and came into her box, no one knows me, and thus this tale will be easily credited; besides, I go so little into the world; and in a month or two, before I leave Paris, perchance, to rejoin you in Bohemia, where you will go under the care of Franz, who has my instructions, then I will tell you my desires, if I do not write them to you. This evening you will go to the Opera; there they will spread the report of my sudden departure. It will be one whim more, which you can attribute to the aberration of my brain, you will be easily believed. You will depart in a close carriage, all my servants will follow you, and it will be readily credited that I have accompanied you. One word more: the contempt and execration with which you inspire me are such that I rely on your not believing that it is from clemency, but from respect for my name, that I do not here unveil to you all your crimes; but take heed, on the least hesitation on your part to obey me, whether here or elsewhere, I shall surmount my disgust, and give you up to vengeance divine and human." And the prince quitted the apartment.
Madame de Hansfeld had listened without interrupting him, thinking that persons ought always to be careful of contradicting madmen. Iris suddenly entered the room with an air of alarm.
"Oh, godmother, what a misfortune!" she cried.
"What mean you?"
"According to your orders, I went to the third rendezvous which Charles de Brévannes has appointed."
"Well?"
"I told him you would not consent to see him."
"Well?"
"Then he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with rage, 'Tell your mistress that I am here; that if she will not give me a speedy interview, at which you may be present—I do not object to that—this evening I will spread every where the tale of Raphael Monti—your lady will understand me.'"
"Did he say so—did he really?"
"And he added, 'She must know I can destroy her, and I will do it.'"
"Misery! misery to me and De Morville! What will he think of me? He will credit these atrocious calumnies,—did not unhappy Raphael believe them?"
"You are to appoint a meeting in some retired spot, the Luxembourg or the Jardin des Plantes, he said, and he will be there; if not, he will speak out. What is to be done? what—what? That wretch of a man is capable of every and any thing!"
After a few moments' reflection, Paula said to Iris, in a decided tone,—
"Give me paper and a pen."
"What are you going to do?"
"Appoint a meeting with M. de Brévannes, at which you shall be present."
"Can you think of such a thing, godmother? What, write and leave a letter of yours in the hands of such a man! What imprudence! But he does not know your writing?"
"No."
"Suppose I write for you."
"You are right; write to him: The day after to-morrow, at ten o'clock, in the Jardin des Plantes, beneath the cedar in the labyrinth. Have you written it?"
"Yes, godmother."
"Sign, Paula Monti."
"If he should wish to make use of this letter," said Iris, after she had signed it, "he will be the dupe of his own infamy."
"When will you give him this note?"
"Instantly; he is waiting your answer at the little gate by the Quai d'Anjou."
"Go, and return as speedily as possible."
"I have a great deal to tell you, what I have just learnt."
"What is it?"
"During the last week the prince has been four times to an old man's house, named Pierre Raimond, who lives close by."
"And what of that?"
"Why, Pierre Raimond is father to Bertha de Brévannes, whom you thought so pretty."
"What do you say?"
"And Bertha has met the prince twice at Pierre Raimond's."
"Him—met him?"
"Under a false name, Arnold Schneider."
"Ah! now I see through it all!" said the princess, pressing both her hands against her brow.
"What, godmother?"
"You shall know by and by; leave me now."
Iris left the apartment.
Some minutes afterwards, deceived by the treacherous language of Iris, M. de Brévannes, maddened by his insensate hopes, covered with passionate kisses the note which he believed to have been written by the Princess de Hansfeld.
When Iris proposed to Madame de Hansfeld to reply for her to M. de Brévannes on the subject of the interview which was to take place in the Jardin des Plantes, she not only prevented the princess from committing an imprudent act, but, unknown to her mistress, made her an accomplice in a most diabolical project.
Our readers, no doubt, remember a black book of which Iris had spoken to M. de Brévannes, and in which she told him the princess wrote her most secret thoughts almost every day.
Nothing could be more false. Paula had never possessed such a book; but it was important to the plots of Iris that M. de Brévannes should credit the falsehood, and his belief would be confirmed when he recognised, in this book, writing similar to that of the note which Madame de Hansfeld had now sent to him.
The profound dissimulation, the bold and mischievous plotting of Iris may excite some astonishment; and it may be, perhaps, equally difficult to comprehend her savage affection, her intense jealousy which had almost become ferocious monomania.
Unfortunately, the main facts of this tale, the principal features in Iris's character, are perfectly true.
There has been known a young girl, with passions so ardent, so implacable, which she has combined, concentrated in the blind attachment she had for her benefactress, a singular affection which approached filial veneration in its religious devotion, maternal tenderness in its charming and pure familiarity, and love in its vindictive jealousy.
If, in the sequel of this tale, there is detected in Iris a great power of imagination joined to an inventive mind, full of stratagem, adroit, and bold,—if any of her combinations seem worked out with a perfidy and skill most rare in a girl of her age, we repeat that solitude had singularly developed her natural faculties, incessantly devoted to one end, and that, compelled to act alone and beneath the shade of the deepest dissimulation, she held every means good that was likely to bring her to the one concentrated object of her desires,—
To isolate her mistress from every affection.
To create, as it were, a void around her, and become to her the more necessary as every other attachment failed her.
This last desire of Iris had hitherto been unsatisfied.
There is no doubt that Madame de Hansfeld felt for her companion a real attachment, placed boundless confidence in her, and was invariably kind and affectionate towards her; but this was not sufficient for the heart of Iris.
She experienced the most bitter, painful resentment at what she called a deception; but, as she was unable to hate her mistress, her execration accumulated against those who inspired the princess with the slightest interest.
These explanations are necessary in order to prepare the reader for the events which follow.
In the two interviews, which her first meeting with De Brévannes had procured her, Iris by order of Paula had endeavoured to fathom this man's motives.
Infamous as it was, the calumny he could spread abroad respecting Madame de Hansfeld was much to be dreaded. Raphael had created the infamous falsehood, and why should not the world, or rather De Morville (for he was all the world to Paula), credit it?
Madame de Hansfeld did not know what course to resolve upon. Since she had been enamoured of De Morville, she had hated De Brévannes the more intensely, and thus her indignation and contempt were insufficient to describe the audacity of the latter, when he attempted to obtain an interview with her, through the mediation of Iris, who sagaciously observed to her mistress, that M. de Brévannes's anger might be dangerous, and that thus, instead of exasperating, it was policy to endeavour to get rid of him peaceably. Unfortunately the violent and headstrong love of Bertha's husband would not conform to any management. As we have seen, in his third interview with Iris, he declared positively that he would speak out, if the princess refused him an interview any longer.
Iris had continued to play her double part, in order to increase De Brévannes' confidence, pretending not to be pleased with her mistress in order to remove all suspicion of collusion, and appearing very much flattered at the agreeable gallantries of M. de Brévannes.
She made him believe, moreover, that Madame de Hansfeld seemed to feel for him a sort of anger, mingled with interest—a singular resentment which Iris did not attempt to explain, as she said, for she affected ignorance of what had occurred at Florence between De Brévannes and Paula. Such was the source of the secret hopes of Bertha's husband; hopes arising from his blind self-love, and increased by the treacherous confidence of Iris.
This explained, we will conduct the reader to the small house which De Brévannes rented in the Rue des Martyrs, and of which he now had sole possession.
It was the day after that on which Iris had given him the pretended note from the princess, on receiving which, De Brévannes had ventured for the first time to speak of the black book, and his desire to possess it for a moment.
Iris, after innumerable difficulties, had told him, that perhaps it might be possible to abstract the book the next day for a few hours only, when the princess was going to pass the morning with Madame de Lormoy, De Morville's aunt.
M. de Brévannes had requested the young girl to bring the precious volume to the Rue des Martyrs, when he would read it in her presence, and return it to her instantly, with the recompense due to such a service,—a recompense which she resolved to accept, in order that no suspicion of De Brévannes should be excited.
He was thus awaiting Iris in the small saloon to which we have before referred.
If the disposition of De Brévannes be borne in mind,—if his unmoveable obstinacy, his pride, his headstrong passion to succeed in whatever he undertook, be not forgotten,—if his will, his obstinacy, his vanity called into play by a deep and enthusiastic love, against which he had struggled for two years, be remembered, we may conceive with what passionate desire he sought to be beloved by Madame de Hansfeld, a woman so attractive, so envied, so respected.
It was noon. M. de Brévannes was awaiting Iris with great impatience.
Madame Grassot, the guardian of this mysterious dwelling, remained in the upper story. Iris arrived, and De Brévannes ran to meet her.
She affected to be trembling and alarmed, and M. de Brévannes reassured, and led her to the room; she holding in her hand a small album bound in black morocco, and closed with a silver lock. Trembling with delight and impatience at the sight of this book, De Brévannes took from the mantel-piece a ring, with a fine-sized brilliant, which he placed on the finger of Iris in spite of her assumed resistance.
"I pray you, my charming Iris," he said, "accept so trifling a token of my gratitude. This pretty hand has no need of ornament, but it is a souvenir which I entreat you to wear, and you promised you would accept it."
"Yes, I did; but I do not know if I ought—a diamond?"
"What is a diamond? It is the ring I speak of."
"And it is the ring, then, that I accept," replied Iris, with a smile of deep hypocrisy, "since my condition exposes me to certain remunerations."
"If I chose a diamond," said De Brévannes, "it is because I would present you with an emblem of the endurance and purity of my gratitude."
And he put forth his hand to take the black book.
"No, no!" exclaimed Iris, appearing still to struggle with duty; "it is so horrible, I condemn myself for you."
"What harm is done? it is but an indiscretion at worst, my dear Iris; and, as your mistress is so often unjust towards you, it is, on your part, but a small, allowable, even innocent vengeance."
"Oh! I know I am inexcusable; and when you have once read the book, you will forget poor Iris, when you have no further occasion for her. But why should I complain, have you not paid me for my treachery?" she added, with bitterness.
"This little creature is desperately smitten with me," thought De Brévannes, "and how the devil shall I get rid of her? Can she mean, now she has got the ring, not to let me see the book?"
Then he said aloud, with earnestness,—
"You are mistaken, Iris. In the first place, I shall never think I have repaid my obligation to you: have no fear that I shall ever forget you. I wish, for my own peace of mind, that I could; and it requires all the seriousness of the things on which I have to discourse with your mistress in order to make me for a moment forget my love for you, Iris; for I do love you. But we will not refer to that now. There are serious interests at stake. How is your mistress?"
"She has remained dull and pensive ever since she gave you the appointment which you so imperatively demanded."
"She forced me to do so. I was so wretched at her refusal, that I forgot myself so far as to threaten her, which I no longer regret, since it has procured for me what I so much desired both for her interest and mine. But she is dull and pensive, you say?"
"Yes; sometimes she remains for a long time as if completely overwhelmed; then suddenly she rises impetuously and walks up and down for some minutes greatly agitated."
"And to what do you ascribe her state of mind?"
"I know not."
"This book, which you hesitate to confide to me, and which I dare not again ask you for, would inform us."
"Oh, I have no desire to know the princess's secrets. It was to be agreeable to you, and to obey you, that I have brought this book: the key is in the lock, but I have not opened it."
"Well, then, open it now, since what you call a wicked act has been committed, you have only to complete the vast service you have rendered me. Do you still hesitate? I know I have no other right to this kindness on your part, except——"
"There I there! read it directly," said Iris, turning away her head, and handing the album to De Brévannes. "What I am doing is infamous, but I cannot resist the influence you have over me."
"De Brévannes quickly opened the black book and perused its contents."
"The influence of a firm will," thought De Brévannes, as he quickly unclosed the black book, in which he read what follows, whilst Iris, with her elbow resting on the mantel-piece, her cheek reclining on her hand, and pretending not to be looking at her dupe, was attentively watching him in the glass.
Iris had penned the following passages with a hand apparently faltering and agitated, as if the ideas had come hastily, confusedly, and irregularly, into the head of the princess:—
"I have seen him again at the Théâtre Française! All my griefs, all my regrets were awakened at the sight of him.
"He will then pursue me every where. I never experienced such violent emotion: to be compelled to conceal all from the penetrating eyes of the world—from the indifferent glances of my husband. Is it hatred, indignation, or anger, which have thus disturbed me?
"Yes, hatred, indignation, and anger, are the feelings I must feel for the man who killed my betrothed, him to whom I was plighted, and whom from my infancy I loved! Ought I not to execrate him who has dishonoured me by such infamous calumny? Oh, yes, I hate him!—I hate him!—and yet......"
Here followed some words absolutely illegible, ending this first passage, and which furnished De Brévannes with a text for a world of conjectures.
These words, "and yet" seemed to him a token of happy augury. He continued,—
"I was so overcome by my recent reflections that I durst not continue or trust to paper—alas! my sole confidant—the cause of my alarm.
"I must reveal my shame. What an abyss is the human mind! how full of contradictions! Oh! no, no; I hate this man! There is, in the obstinacy with which he has pursued his design, something infernal; and if what I experience towards him be not hatred, it is a vague fear which mingles with this hate. Yes, it is that, no doubt. And, then, if there be united with these a kind of regret at seeing a will so firm, a pertinacity so great, employed in doing ill—in injuring—calumniating......
"Had he devoted himself to noble designs, what glorious results might he not have realised!
"Yes, I am alarmed when I reflect on the skill with which he formerly contrived to introduce himself to us—to render himself indispensable to our interests. With what impenetrable dissimulation did he conceal his love for me—only once referring to it; and with what indignation did I receive his avowal!
"Ought I not to believe, although he assured me of the contrary, that his attentions to my aunt were serious? Could I be deceived? Have I deceived myself in this respect?
"The abominable calumny of which I have been the victim has not even enlightened me as to the truth. Poor aunt! how many chagrins has she unconsciously caused me!
"It was only wanting for this man to have placed his love, his passionate devotion, fittingly. No doubt he would have loved a woman whose heart was free with intense devotion; but wherefore has he loved me—me? Was I not plighted to Raphael? Had he not frequently heard me allude to our approaching union? And after a first and last avowal, he had recourse to the most infamous calumny to dishonour her to whom once, and but once only, he had spoken of love.
"It seems to me that I am comforted in thus pouring out my most painful thoughts. Yes, it enables me to read my heart more closely.
"Alas! I was already so wretched, had I need of any increase of sorrow's? Oh! accursed be thou who hast driven me into a marriage without love, by slaying my betrothed, whom I loved most tenderly!
"Yes, I loved him with the love of infancy, which changed in advancing years to a sentiment more soft than friendship, but more tranquil than love.
"What is my life now? Horrible, horrible! with every appearance of happiness, if wealth be happiness! For ever linked to a man who so often, alas! compels me to regret the fate of Raphael!
"Poor Raphael, to die so young! Alas! in provoking M. de Brévannes, he yielded to a feeling of just and courageous despair; and yet his murderer, on his side, and not unreasonably, invoked the right of legitimate defence.
"It is true, Raphael no longer suffers, but I suffer daily; every instant of my life is a punishment! What can I do?
"Resign myself.
"To rouse me from my painful apathy, it required that I should again see the man who has caused me so much misery.
"How strange! I felt wholly different from what I had expected, what I ought, I think, to have felt, at the sight of him. Yes, I confess it with horror (who will ever know this avowal?), my anger, my indignation, do not seem to be commensurate with his crimes.
"In vain do I curse my weakness; in vain do I say to myself that this man has calumniated me in an infamous manner; in vain do I repeat to myself that he has slain Raphael, that he is almost the author of the ills I endure, that he can at this moment ruin me. In spite of myself I have the baseness to believe that it is the love with which I have inspired him which has plunged him into this abyss of horrible actions. Dare I add, that sometimes I am capable of excusing him?"
De Brévannes felt his heart beat violently; his unchecked pride, the blindness of his passion, served Iris even beyond her hope.
Nothing is more vulgar, more antiquated, yet more true than the adage, "We believe what we desire."
In these pages, which he believed were written by Madame de Hansfeld, M. de Brévannes beheld the proof of an impression which was composed of hatred and love, affright and admiration.
Admiration scarcely avowed, it is true, but which, as De Brévannes' vanity suggested, was but love unsuspected or resisted.
A fact very strange, but very skilfully handled by Iris, contributed to increase the error of M. de Brévannes. He had only made a declaration once to Paula, and from the fragment we have quoted, he might believe that she had not responded to his passion through jealousy of the apparent attentions which he paid to her aunt; and thus he might also believe that his infamous calumny, if not forgotten, was at least almost excused by the feigned words of the princess.
"It is the love with which I have inspired him which has plunged him into this abyss of horrible actions. Dare I add, that sometimes I am capable of excusing him?"
As to the death of Raphael, whom Paula loved with a feeling "more soft than friendship, but more tranquil than love," this murder, almost justified by the attack of this unfortunate young man, was, it is true, one of the causes which most forcibly resisted the irresistible inclination of Madame de Hansfeld for M. de Brévannes.
Without the authority of the black book, it then must have been a complete blindness to explain thus the conduct of Madame de Hansfeld; but M. de Brévannes, believing that he perused writing traced by her, had too much pride and love not to adopt at once this interpretation, which was so extremely natural.
Why should De Brévannes mistrust Iris? Why should he have believed her capable of so strange a deception? As to the princess, for what purpose should she have written these pages, which she never could suppose would be submitted to any other eye than her own?
Supposing, too, that on an understanding with Iris, she had authorised this communication in order to persuade M. de Brévannes that her wrongs were effaced by love, such a thing could only flatter him.
We may thus easily comprehend that he continued the reading of the black book with increasing hope and interest.
"What can this man want? He has contrived to have an interview with Iris—poor ingenuous girl!—and has proposed to her to convey a letter to me, which she refused. What can he wish? What audacity! How can he support even my look?
"The man is mad! What has he to say to me? Can he think to excuse his conduct? But I......
"Yesterday I could not proceed: I was interrupted by my husband's arrival.
"The prince has, then, all his life studied the effects of grief in order to aim his blows more surely. He is a monster! His refinements of torture are unheard of. Oh, now I understand why I do not hate M. de Brévannes sufficiently: all my hatred is employed against my torturer.
"And to be for life—for life, linked to this man! To be unable to break this chain, so odious, except by death!
"Then let it strike me, let it strike me speedily, since one of us must die in order to break this horrible union; let it be me rather than my husband."
M. de Brévannes shuddered at these words, and exclaimed, as he addressed Iris,—
"Is the princess, then, very unhappy?"
"Very unhappy!" replied Iris, gloomily.
"Her husband is without sympathy for her?"
"Quite so."
De Brévannes continued reading:—
"Yes, yes—death! I do not deserve to live; I have been faithless to the memory of Raphael; I do not deserve any commiseration. If my husband is a monster of cruelty, what, then, am I, who cannot turn away my thoughts from the man who has caused all my evils by killing my betrothed?
"Oh, I am ashamed of myself. I must note down these horrible things, that I may see them, then, in substance, under my eyes, in order to believe them possible.
"To reach, oh, heavens! so low a depth of abasement!
"Is it my fault, too? Grief depraves so much. Yes, it depraves, renders criminal; for, sometimes weighed down by despair, I exclaim, 'Since it was written in M. de Brévannes' destiny that he should be a murderer, why did not fate, instead of giving up Raphael to his blows, place my tormentor in his way?'"
Here the pages ended.
Iris had no doubt wished to leave M. de Brévannes to reflect, at his leisure, on this homicidal wish.
He exclaimed, as he shut the book suddenly,—
"Iris, have you read nothing of what is written here?"
The young girl appeared not to have heard these words, but looked steadfastly at him.
"Iris," he repeated, "you have not read these pages?"
"No, no," she said, starting from her reverie; "what is the book to me?"
"She thinks of nothing but me," he thought; "there is nothing to fear from her indiscretion."
He locked the book again, and handed it to the young girl, saying to her,—
"You have, without knowing it, done a most material service to your mistress."
"You love her?" asked Iris abruptly, and casting a piercing glance at him.
"I!" said De Brévannes, with the most careless air in the world; "a singular proof of love, truly, to cruelly menace the woman one loves! No, no, I have no love for her; nothing but the most intense friendship could make a man have recourse to such extremities."
"I must believe you," said Iris sorrowfully, as she took the book from him.
"Adieu, Iris, until to-morrow," said M. de Brévannes; "you will remind Madame de Hansfeld of the interview she has promised me."
"She will not fail; but, now I reflect, in Heaven's name, let nothing give her a suspicion that you have read this book, or I am lost!"
"Make yourself easy, my dear Iris; I will be as far from knowing that as her most secret thoughts: nothing shall betray my knowledge of it; only promise to bring me this book once more, as it will be of the utmost importance that I should again peruse it after the interview I am to have with your mistress to-morrow. Promise me this."
"What! do wrong again?—again abuse her confidence? Ah! now I have no right to complain other injustice to me."
"Iris, I entreat you!"
"You ask it, and is not that more than a command for me?"
In his gratitude, De Brévannes took hold of Iris's hand, and drawing her towards him, would have kissed her brow, but the young girl repulsed him violently and proudly, to his great surprise, as he imagined he should be giving her the utmost pleasure in acting with such condescension. When she reached the Quai, Iris flung into the river the ring she had received as the reward of her treachery.
After his attentive perusal of the black book, De Brévannes fell into a deep reverie. He could not doubt but he was beloved by Madame de Hansfeld, who struggled with all her power against the involuntary inclination.
Her husband rendered her so miserable, that she went so far as sometimes to desire his death.
Although this wish appeared to him somewhat exaggerated, De Brévannes considered all these circumstances as favourable to him, and awaited with intense anxiety the moment of the meeting which Madame de Hansfeld had appointed for the next day in the Jardin des Plantes.
Madame de Brévannes had frequently met M. de Hansfeld, under the name of Arnold Schneider, at Pierre Raimond's. He had saved the old engraver's life, and nothing could be more natural than his visits to see him.
Bertha having resolved on again teaching the piano, in order to supply her father's wants, used to go to his abode three times a-week, and remain there for three hours, giving her lessons in his presence.
It will not be forgotten that Bertha had made a deep impression on M. de Hansfeld the first time he saw her at the Comédie Française, and when he subsequently met her at Pierre Raimond's, whom he had snatched from certain death, he was forcibly struck at the circumstance which thus brought him into contact with Bertha, viewing it as a kind of fatality which the more augmented his love.
The charm of De Hansfeld's manner, the delicacy of his mind, his respectful attentions, which were almost filial towards Pierre, soon converted the gratitude which the old man felt for his preserver into sincere affection.
Arnold was simple-minded and good, discoursed with taste and sound knowledge as to the great masters of painting, who were objects of passionate admiration to the old man, who had devoted a portion of his life to reproducing in copper the best productions of Raphael, Vinci, and Titian. He had shewn these labours of his youth and maturity to Arnold, who had appreciated them like a connoisseur and skilful artist.
His praises did not betray complaisance or flattery; but moderated, just, and appropriate, they were the more pleasing to Pierre Raimond, who had a perfect knowledge of his art, and, like all earnest and modest artists, knew better than any one else the strong and weak points of his works. This was not all. Arnold seemed, by his political opinions, to belong to that effervescent party of Young Germany which presents so much analogy with certain shades of the republican school.
In consequence of these many points of similarity, the recent intimacy of Pierre Raimond and Arnold became every day more and more close. The latter was really in earnest,—he felt sincerely attracted towards the blunt and austere old man, who preserved the attachments and ideas of his early days in all their warmth and integrity.
M. de Hansfeld was exceedingly timid; the duties of his station so weighed upon him, that, in order to escape from them, he had affected the greatest eccentricities. His tastes, his inclinations, lead him to a life more simple and obscure, peaceably occupying himself with the arts and social theories. Thus, even in Bertha's absence, he found in the two rooms of Pierre Raimond more pleasure, happiness, and enchantment, than he had hitherto experienced in all his palaces.
If he had only desired to dissemble his attentions to Bertha under the appearance of deceitful attentions to the engraver, the latter had too much instinct for the truth not to have perceived it, and too much stern pride not to have closed his door against Arnold.
Pierre Raimond was not blind to the fact that his young friend found Bertha charming, and that he equally admired her talent as an artist, the ingenuousness of her character, and the graces of her mind.
In his paternal pride, so far from being alarmed, Pierre Raimond was delighted at this admiration, for he had the blindest confidence in Bertha's principles. And did he not owe his life to Arnold? How could he suppose that this young man, with so noble a heart, ideas so generous, would infamously abuse those relations which gratitude had established between himself and the man whose life he had saved?
In Pierre Raimond's eyes that would have been still more infamous than to have dishonoured the daughter of his benefactor. Then, too, Arnold had told him he was one of the people, and, in the exaggeration of his peculiar ideas, Pierre Raimond accorded to him a confidence which he could never have lavished on the Prince de Hansfeld.
Bertha, at first attracted towards Arnold by gratitude, had gradually felt the influence of his goodness and attraction. He was frequently present with the old engraver at Bertha's music lessons, was himself an excellent musician, and Bertha often listened to him with as much interest as pleasure when he discoursed, with evident skill, of an art which she adored, referred to the lives of the great composers of Germany, and displayed, as it were, the poetry of their works, whilst he developed their innumerable beauties.
How enchanting were the hours thus passed by Bertha, Arnold, and Pierre Raimond! The latter knew nothing of music, but his young friend translated—explained to him, as we may say—the musical thoughts of the great masters, analysing them phrase by phrase, and doing for the works of Mozart, Beethoven, and Gluck, what Hoffman has done so wonderfully for Don Juan.
Bertha, sensibly touched by Arnold's attentions to Pierre Raimond, attributed to that alone the lively sympathy which every day drew her into closer communion with the prince, who was the more dangerous as he was so utterly unaffected and sincere. Nothing in his language or his manners could startle Madame de Brévannes of the peril she was incurring.
Arnold's conduct was one continual avowal, he had no need to say one word of love. If by chance he was alone for a moment with Bertha, his look, his tone were the same as those he maintained in the engraver's presence, and when the latter returned Arnold could always conclude the sentence he had begun.
How, then, could Madame de Brévannes mistrust an intimacy so pure, so tranquil? Arnold had never said to her, "I love you!" She had never for a moment believed he could love her, and yet both were already under the irresistible charm of love.
We repeat, that, by a singular chance, these three persons, sincere in their affections, without mistrust or concealed thought, loved each other. Arnold tenderly loved the old man and his daughter, and they returned his affection ardently. In truth, all three found themselves so happy, that, by a sort of instinct that was preservative of happiness, they had never thought of analysing their felicity, but enjoyed it without considering its source or its tendency.
The only thing that could enlighten Bertha as to the sentiment to which her heart was daily expanding, was the sort of indifference with which she bore the brutalities of her husband; she was now but vaguely astonished at them, feeling quite regardless of injuries that had formerly been so deeply wounding.
When her father, extremely irritated with M. dc Brévannes, had seriously and almost severely questioned her as to Do Brévannes' conduct, she had uttered no falsehood in replying that for some time past he had ceased to annoy her.
The old man had had the more faith in Bertha's answer, inasmuch as, by degrees, she became calm and smiling, and her countenance, formerly so sorrowful, now revealed the most perfect tranquillity. Perhaps Pierre Raimond's blind confidence may be blamed, but it was one of the illustrations of his character.
These facts stated, we will now lead the reader to Pierre Raimond's modest retreat, the day after that on which M. de Hansfeld had commanded his wife to quit Paris in three days.
A good fire blazed on the hearth, whilst without the snow was falling and the wind was bitterly cold. Pierre Raimond was seated on one side of the fireplace, and Arnold on the other. Since the prince had fallen in love, his features had resumed an appearance of strength and health, although his countenance was still somewhat pale.
A serious discussion had arisen between Pierre Raimond and Arnold; for to complete the charm of their intimacy, they differed in their particular views on certain artistical questions, and amongst others in their estimation of Michael Angelo.
Arnold, whilst he rendered justice and homage due to the immense genius of the old sculptor of marble, felt no sympathy in his productions, although he fully understood the admiration they inspired. Arnold's delicate and pure taste, which was enamoured of beauty in art, took fright at the sombre and terrible style of the bold Buonarotti, and infinitely preferred the divine grace of Raphael.
Pierre Raimond defended his old sculptor with energy, and was, moreover, as passionately smitten by the proud independence of Michael Angelo's character as by the gigantic powers of his talent.
"Your tender Raphael led the enervating life of a courtier," said the old man to Arnold, "whilst the rude creator of Moses and the Sistine chapel had a republican soul, and he was right to menace, as he did menace, Pope Julio with throwing him off his scaffolding if he failed in respect to him."
M. de Hansfeld could not refrain from a smile at Pierre Raimond's enthusiasm, and replied,—
"I do not deny the somewhat savage energy of Michael Angelo; he had, unfortunately, a disposition morose, haughty, taciturn, sombre, disdainful, and difficult to be satisfied."
"Unfortunately! what do you mean by the word unfortunately?"
"I mean that it was unfortunate for the sincere admirers of this man to be unable to form with him agreeable and close intimacies."
"So much the better. Do you take him for a Raphael, for a poor creature like your hero? For," added the engraver, with an accent of disdain, "there never was a living man in the world whose disposition was more easy, more insinuating, more amiable, than your Raphael."
"Well, at least, you confess his good qualities."
"Qualities! why, it is because of such qualities so odious that I detest him as a man, though I venerate him as an artist."
"And I, my dear M. Raimond, for the precisely same reason, in consequence of the defects of the diabolical disposition of Michael Angelo that I have such an antipathy to the man, although I bow devoutly before his genius."
"Your admiration is not natural, it is forced—exaggerated!" exclaimed the engraver.
"What!" said Arnold, amazed; "you detest Raphael for his qualities, yet when I do not like Michael Angelo in consequence of his defects, you accuse me of exaggeration!"
"Certainly: no man is great—no man is Michael Angelo, but in consequence of certain conditions. I admire in the lion his wild and savage instincts,—he is only a lion on condition of being wild and savage; and he cannot have the virtues of a sheep like your Raphael."
"But, at least, allow me to admire in Raphael these sheeplike virtues, which are, if you will, the consequence of his nature, his talent."
"Assuredly admire, if you can find any thing worthy of admiration in such a character. As for me, physically speaking, I cannot for an instant place the insipid face of the beautiful, celestial Raphael, all bedecked as he is with velvet and embroidery, in the scale with the masculine physiognomy of my old Buonarotti, sombre, fierce, tanned by the sun, and attired in an old blouse, half hidden by his sculptor's leathern apron! Come, come, do you suppose that these two natures can be compared for an instant? Ah, ah, ah! what a pleasant contrast! On the one hand I see the divine Raphael——"
"The divine Raphael would have bent his knee, and respectfully kissed the powerful hand of old Michael Angelo, his master and grandsire in the art," said Arnold mildly, and extending his hand to Pierre Raimond.
"You are right," replied the latter, responding warmly to this evidence of cordiality on the part of M. de Hansfeld; "I am an old ass, and as much excited as I was at twenty!"
Bertha came in at this moment. It would be difficult to paint the delightful expression of her countenance when she saw her father and Arnold thus clasping hands: her eyes were filled with joyful tears.
"Come to my rescue, my dear child," said Pierre Raimond; "I am beaten. My silly grey beard is obliged to bow itself before this venerable light-brown moustache. He remains as calm as reason itself, whilst I am as much excited as if I were on the wing."
"And what was the subject of this grave discussion?" inquired Bertha, smiling and looking alternately at Arnold and her father.
"Michael Angelo," said Pierre Raimond.
"Raphael," said Arnold.
"What, M. Arnold! you cannot yield to my father?"
"I should like to see him yield, indeed, without discussion! I am not desirous that he should yield, but that he should be convinced."
"As to that, M. Raimond, I have my doubts. Conviction does not flash across me; and Raphael——"
"But Michael Angelo——"
"Come, come—to make you both agree I will play you the air from Fidelio, of which M. Arnold is so fond, and of which he has made you as fond as himself, father."
"Confess, Don Raphael," said the old man to Arnold, laughing as he spoke, "that she has more sense than we have."
"Decidedly, Signor Michael Angelo; and Madame Bertha knows very well, that when we listen to her we have no inclination to talk."
"Oh, M. Arnold, I am not the dupe of your flatteries."
"To try him, my dear, begin the overture to Fidelio. You know it is my favourite piece ever since our friend has made me comprehend its beauties."
Bertha began to play this piece with love; the presence of Arnold seemed to give a new power to her talent.
At the end of a few minutes M. de Hansfeld appeared completely absorbed in deep and painful meditation; although he had often heard Bertha play this music, the sad feelings its recollections excited bad never been more painfully aroused.