"I have already said, that I hate and detest every person who loves you, or whom you love, with a hatred as deadly as I feel for your enemies. Such is my nature—such my unavoidable course."
"Then as regards M. de Morville?"
"Nay," interrupted Iris,—"nay, godmother, ask me for no further reasons than I have already given for my aversion to M. de Morville. Am I not jealous of the smallest portion of your favour? and do I not suffer the most cruel torments each time you lavish the rich treasures of your love on beings wholly incapable of valuing and appreciating you as I do; still, I would not, for my own selfish gratification, deprive you of any certain happiness, because that happiness would cause my wretchedness and despair. Oh, no; far from it;—there have been times when such evil thoughts have presented themselves to my imagination,—but I have been enabled to struggle with and overcome them!"
"Then I am to understand," said Madame de Hansfeld, bitterly, "that you grant me permission to return the affection of M. de Morville?"
"I will do more than that," returned the mulatto, casting a piercing look on her mistress.
Without being able either to account for her own sensations, or the meaning of the singular look bestowed on her by Iris, Madame de Hansfeld felt a deep blush steal over her cheek as she hastily bent her head to conceal her emotion.
In a more humble and subdued tone, the mulatto resumed, by saying,—
"And now that I have told you all I know concerning Raphael, I will also enlighten you on subjects relating to the prince."
"At length, then," murmured the princess, "this fearful mystery will be explained—she will confess all."
After remaining silent a few minutes, Iris, again fixing her scrutinising glances on the countenance of her mistress, thus resumed:—
"You have often told me that you espoused the Prince de Hansfeld with regret, and that your principal motive for bestowing your hand on him was to secure a provision for your aunt. I am correct so far, am I not?"
"Perfectly so!"
"You likewise informed me that, thanks to the extreme liberality of M. de Hansfeld, the greater part of his immense fortune would, at his death, revert to you——"
"Hold! miserable girl! you make me chill with horror! These repeated attempts on his life then——"
Without taking any notice of her mistress's remark, Iris continued,—
"Shortly after your marriage your former dejection of spirits returned with redoubled force. I hesitated no longer; and one evening, at Trieste, unperceived by any person, I put into a cup of milk——"
"Monster! I will hear no more!"
"Nay, godmother, I had taken my precautions too carefully to dread discovery, and even had I not escaped detection, none but myself could have been implicated; and besides, I should have voluntarily declared I was the sole culprit, and that no living soul was privy to my guilt."
"Horrible! and did you not shudder at the enormity of the crime you meditated?—did no whisper of conscience remind you how foul a deed you were about to commit?"
"Godmother, you desired to be released from your marriage-vows."
"How knew you that?—did I ever say so? Nay, I never even allowed such an idea to enter my mind."
"You repented having surrendered your liberty; my intention was to restore it to you."
"Have you, then, no notion of the difference between good and evil?"
"Oh! yes. Good is that which renders you happy. Evil whatever makes you wretched."
"Merciful Heavens! who would ever have believed such wild and savage enthusiasm could be found in our days and in a civilised country? And your hand trembled not? and you could calmly and coolly premeditate a crime as black as that of murder? and, still more, how could you renew your diabolical attacks undismayed by former failures?"
"After my first attempt, your melancholy became greater than ever. You frequently complained to me of what you had to endure from the inequality of the prince's temper, and many a time have I heard you curse the hour in which you were induced to consent to your ill-assorted marriage; and then, when most under the influence of gloom and depression of spirits, you have wept bitterly, and called upon death to free you from your misery. This was more than I could bear, and a second time I determined to effect the death of him who occasioned your sufferings. I planned my attack one night that we passed at a lone inn, and I contrived to gain admittance into the chamber of my intended victim by climbing up to the balcony belonging to his sleeping-apartment, the window of which opened into it, but had been left partly open to admit the air; this window I managed to close after me as I made my retreat after this second failure."
"Impossible that one so young could act with so much cold-blooded hardihood! I cannot, I will not believe the evidence of my own senses!"
"Alas! could you but comprehend how my heart sympathises with your most trifling sorrow; how each tear wrung from your eyes seems to fall like molten lead upon my brain; you would be able to understand the cold-blooded hardihood with which you reproach me! Ah! did you only know what a burden life has seemed to me since I discovered how valueless and unimportant I was to you, you could far better enter into my eager desire to secure your happiness, even at the risk of my own life, which was hateful and distasteful to me; and that I made no further attempts to achieve my design was attributable to the increased precautions adopted by the prince to secure his safety."
"Enough, enough; you fill me with horror! and now, what am I to do?—you have confessed your crime——"
"It matters little to me what is done now."
"You cannot for one instant suppose I can keep near me the person who has thrice endeavoured to deprive my husband of life—whose hand has been raised against that good and generous man who has even feigned madness to shield me from suspicion?"
"Yet you desire the death of this good and generous husband as ardently as you ever did!"
"Silence! I command."
"And should he die, you would espouse M. de Morville!"
For a moment Paula remained as though struck dumb by these fearful words, but quickly recovering herself she indignantly replied,—
"And by what right do you presume to scrutinise my thoughts? Is it any reason for my wishing the death of M. de Hansfeld that such an event would restore me to freedom? or that, in my eagerness to be free, I should even sanction any murderous attempt upon his life?"
"Still, I say, and I repeat it, you do desire the death of M. de Hansfeld."
"Begone, begone! instantly leave me!"
"Oh, pardon, godmother! pardon!" cried Iris, falling at the feet of Paula; then in a voice half-choked by convulsive sobs and sighs, she continued, "I am a guilty, sinful creature, for in all I have done I have acted with cool and calculated premeditation, knowing full well both the extent and consequences of my crime; but I again assert that I know no good worth caring for but your happiness; no evil to be dreaded but your misery, all other considerations are as nothing with me; why, then, drive me from you? was it for my own advancement, or interest, that I sought to commit the deeds which inspire you with so much horror? was it not you—absolutely and entirely you, I endeavoured to save and to serve?"
"But to serve me by such frightful means was to render me guilty as yourself!"
"Then I repent of my past conduct, and humbly beseech your pardon, thus prostrate at your feet, only do not—oh, do not send me from you; it would be to sign the warrant for my death; for, as truly as life now throbs in my veins, do I solemnly assure you that life should cease on the instant you passed such a sentence on me. You know my determined nature, and of what I am capable; but, believe me, I care nothing for my existence further than it can be rendered useful to you."
"Again, I say, begone! Die—if such be your wish—your death would be a benefit both to the world and me. Since I have heard the prince's accusations and your subsequent confessions, I feel as though surrounded by an atmosphere of crimes and treachery, which terrifies and oppresses my mind with the fearful apprehension of becoming myself infected with its black wickedness, and I shudder, lest in time I might become as guilty as yourself; begone, then, I say, begone!"
Pale and sorrowful, Iris arose from her kneeling attitude, pressed one of her mistress's hands tenderly and reverentially to her lips, and made a step towards the door, when Madame de Hansfeld, shuddering at the fearfully stern expression of the girl's features, could not refrain from exclaiming,—
"Stay, Iris!"
The girl returned—and mutely, earnestly questioned Paula by one of her expressive and soul-searching glances.
"But what," cried the princess, "am I to say to the prince? Satisfied of my innocence, he will not rest till he has discovered the real culprit—what reply can I make if he questions me on the subject? will not his suspicions naturally point to you? And, besides, merciful Heavens! now I think of it, is there not a fearful probability of his believing that you have acted by my direction, and at my suggestion? See into how inextricable a labyrinth you have plunged me!"
"Godmother! I implore but permission to remain here; or, if I must be driven hence, at least let it not be by you; should the prince command my departure, I will endeavour to submit, but, I beseech you, let not your hand deal the blow that will crush me in the dust, never more to rise."
"Supposing, even, that the suspicions of M. de Hansfeld did not fall on you, would it not be sinful and criminal in me to retain near me a creature who has thrice attempted the life of my husband, and who might, under the influence of the same savage monomania which has already actuated her, be induced to renew her murderous designs!"
"If you desire it, godmother, I am ready to bind myself by any oath you will dictate never again to aim at the life of the prince."
"If I desire it? Heavenly powers! can you for an instant suppose the contrary?"
"Then, I swear by yourself (the only oath I know of possessing sufficient power to compel my strict adherence to it) to respect the existence of M. de Hansfeld as carefully as I would do your own," said the mulatto, with a peculiar look, gazing at the same time on Paula as if she would have read the very inmost recesses of her heart; "but, should you ever wish to marry M. de Morville without having to reproach yourself for the death of the prince, a death of which I should be equally innocent as yourself, say but one word—or, no, not even a word—" and Iris, casting her glances around, as though seeking something, and perceiving on the mantel-piece a gold pin, surmounted with an enamelled head, set round with pearls, took it up, saying, "you need only give me back this pin, and without either you or myself being in the eyes of God or man in any manner instrumental in procuring the death of the prince; you shall be free as air and at liberty to espouse M. de Morville. There is nothing that need astonish you in what I say; your greatest desire is for this marriage, while my sole and absorbing wish is for your perfect and unalloyed happiness."
Before the princess could reply, Iris had disappeared.
The engraver and his daughter were deeply affected by the recital of M. de Hansfeld. The pity of Bertha was excited by the painful situation of a man compelled like Arnold to struggle between his love for his wife and the horrible suspicions he entertained of her murderous intentions towards himself; there seemed to her a singular resemblance in the sorrows of the unhappy husband and her own; both were chained for life to objects wholly unworthy of their affections, and henceforward they must each drag on a weary existence, consuming their days in vain regrets or futile hopes. Still Bertha admitted to herself that her own burden was considerably lightened, since she had met in the preserver of her father a man who had inspired her with a sympathy as sincere as it was pure and innocent.
She neither sought nor desired greater happiness than that of frequently seeing Arnold, and of hearing him converse with Pierre Raimond in a style and manner so winningly cheerful and gay, yet replete with tasteful observations on the literature of the day, as well as on every other subject indicative of an expansive and cultivated mind. We shall not allude to the exquisite delight with which, after Arnold had taken his departure, Bertha listened to the warm and energetic praises of the old engraver concerning the wonderful talent of Arnold, who, in Pierre Raimond's estimation, was one of the most learned, scientific, intelligent individuals, it had ever been his lot to meet.
The day following that in which Iris had held the conversation with her mistress we have just related, M. de Brévannes, irritated by the all-absorbing passion which engrossed his thoughts, as well as by many other causes of extreme anxiety, had resumed his brutal treatment of his wife, whose presence became more and more insupportable to him, persuaded as he was that once freed from his marriage-bonds, he should have both more leisure and better facilities for completing his affair with Madame de Hansfeld, even on the morning of the very day of which we are speaking he had compelled his poor suffering wife to endure a fresh scene of violence and abuse. The time was past when Bertha would have received these reproaches with floods of bitter tears; on the contrary, her heart smote her for finding such ready consolation in the hope and prospect of finding Arnold as usual awaiting her arrival at her father's humble but happy home. Banishing from her mind all recollection of the unkindness she had just experienced, Bertha hastened with eager delight to refresh her worn and wearied spirits in the society of the two persons dearest to her upon earth.
Great was the joy of old Pierre at the unexpected entrance of his daughter, the following day having been the one arranged between them, when last they parted, for her next visit.
"Welcome, my child!" cried the old man, tenderly caressing her, "this is a pleasure I had not ventured to promise myself before to-morrow; but I see—I see—some fresh outbreak of cruel tyranny. Well! never mind, since the brutal treatment of that man who daily cares less and less about you enables you to visit your old father more frequently, I find my dislike to him considerably decrease, and if you are not happy, at least you are no longer absolutely wretched; that is something towards a cure, and I do not despair of seeing you again happy. But what an old fool I am to let you know all the foolish fancies that come into my head at times!"
"No, no, dear father! it is very good and kind of you to try and cheer me up by hopes for the future; tell me, then, what you venture to expect may one day happen to render us both happy?"
"Why, my beloved daughter, it is this, that, finding your husband allow you uncontrolled permission to pass half your time with me, I live in hopes that he may be induced to grant you permission to reside here entirely."
"Oh! no, father: I dare not think of such a thing! he knows too well what happiness it would give me."
"Perhaps you are right; but imagine what would be my delight if such a blessing were granted to my prayers. But, alas! he only can bring about this desirable arrangement, the power of separating rests with him; and as our laws stand, a poor wife has no refuge from the thousand tortures the cruelty and neglect of her husband may inflict upon her: she must bear all—suffer all—while he, armed with absolute power, may crush her spirit to the dust with impunity. If I may venture to say so much to you, my child, it is my idea that this bad man has some new and disgraceful passion for another; his increased brutality, his desire to keep me at a distance, all conspire to make me believe it is so; and in that case he will be but too ready to grant a separation which will be as congenial with his desires as yours! What do we want of him! From the time in which you resumed giving music-lessons you have been unable to accept half the pupils offered; you your small earnings will satisfy all our humble wants; you will re-establish yourself in your old familiar apartment, our friend Arnold will come and visit us daily; what on earth can we wish for more?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing, dearest father! but this dream is too delightful to be realised!"
"Once more, I say, who knows what may be in store for us? And, although, my child, I well know your attachment for your old father, still the company of one of my time of life is not fitted to form the sole society of a young creature like you; and I should have felt some remorse in accepting your devoted affection. But now that we have Don 'Raphael' Arnold to occasionally enliven our solitude," continued Pierre Raimond, smiling and talking of him, "Bertha, see what a reward is reaped by those who cherish pure and virtuous feelings, and possess honour and integrity; but for the profound esteem which unites us three together, and gives so great a charm to our intimacy, how large a portion of happiness would be lost to each, had I believed Arnold capable of entertaining a criminal passion for you, and basely trampling under foot the sacred relations of benefactor and benefited, it would have deprived him of that friendship on our part which is as essential to his happiness as to our own!"
At this moment a knock was heard at the door of the engraver.
"Come in!" cried the old man.
The door opened, and Arnold appeared.
"Why, we are in luck's way to-day!" exclaimed Pierre Raimond; "first my daughter, then you agreeably surprise me by your presence. But what has occurred? are you not well? you appear thoughtful, dejected, absorbed in some painful idea."
"Yes, indeed, M. Arnold," added Bertha, "you do look very different from your usual cheerful appearance, and you are so silent, too! Has any fresh trouble reached you? Some fresh source of disquietude probably on account of your wife?"
Arnold started, smiled sadly, and then replied,—
"You are right, I am disturbed, and it is on my wife's account!"
"How?" exclaimed Pierre Raimond, indignantly; "does the wretched woman even presume so far as to look up after your—what shall I call it?—weakness; oh! then this time shew neither pity nor compassion, crimes such as hers deserve no mercy. Have a care that you do not carry your generosity rather too far; there is a dangerous gulf intermediate between a magnanimous forbearance towards our enemies, and a culpable indifference towards the wicked, whose misdeeds merit condign chastisement."
The utter prostration of bodily powers seemed to prevent M. de Hansfeld from making any attempt to interrupt Pierre Raimond, but when he had ceased speaking, the prince said mournfully,—
"My wife is not guilty! while I have deceived you greatly, by introducing myself into your family under a false name: candour and honesty alike call for this avowal!"
"What is this I hear?" exclaimed the old man, suddenly rising from his chair.
Pale and terrified, Bertha gazed on M. de Hansfeld with painful anxiety, from him to her father, but the features of the old man wore an expression of gloomy sternness that made her quickly turn away her eyes.
"Explain yourself, sir!" said the engraver, coldly; "it is impossible for me to attempt to find any excuse for your conduct until I have heard the whole of your reasons for acting as you have done."
"I will reveal every thing; deign, however, to bear in mind that I am in no way compelled to make my present avowal; and my sole reason for so doing is that I may remain worthy of your friendship."
"After so base a deception? hope it not, sir!"
"Be kind enough to hear my exculpation, it may probably induce you to view my offence with greater indulgence. When chance enabled me to offer you my assistance, which was afterwards so more than repaid by your humane intervention in my behalf, and that I was, during my temporary loss of consciousness, transported into your dwelling, my first impulse was to declare to you my real name; but at the very instant the words were on my lips, your daughter entered."
"And how could that prevent you following out your intention?"
"Because I recognised her!"
"Me?" exclaimed Bertha.
"Observe, I knew her only by sight," resumed Arnold; "a few evenings previously I had met your daughter at the Théâtre François: her name was pronounced in my presence, and subsequently I heard a just eulogium passed on the stern but noble pride of her father."
"You will be pleased, sir, to dispense with praise, either false or real, on the present occasion," interrupted Pierre Raimond impatiently.
"I offer them not as my words, or with any intention of conciliating you by flattery; but in order better to explain the reason of my concealing my title—since fate has thought proper that I should bear one."
"No matter, sir, what might have been your motives, you have very skilfully succeeded in deceiving the confidence of an old man and the simplicity of a young woman. I beg to congratulate you on your great success!"
"I was wrong; I seek not to deny so much; but, at least, listen to my explanation of why I did not announce my name and rank. Aware of your antipathy for certain classes of society, I was apprehensive that my position in life would prove an obstacle to the acquaintance I so much desired to cultivate with you."
"Doubtless with the equally honourable idea of seducing my daughter, and abusing the most sacred of all obligations—the gratitude of one who has been served towards his benefactor. Oh! you, and such as you belong to, are ever the same!" cried Pierre Raimond, with increasing bitterness. Then, after a momentary pause, he indignantly exclaimed, "And, not many instants ere you entered, was I discoursing with my daughter upon the charm of that noble confidence inspired by mutual esteem, and which so firmly knits together in bonds of tender friendship all faithful, upright hearts."
"Alas!" said Bertha, in low and tearful accents to the prince, "you little know the pain you have occasioned both my father and myself by your disingenuous conduct; for my father had so perfect a confidence in your honour and truth!"
"I am aware I merit all your reproaches, but remember I come voluntarily to encounter them."
"Who then are you, sir?" inquired old Pierre.
"The Prince de Hansfeld," replied Arnold, dejectedly, and looking downwards as if ashamed so to style himself.
"And you inhabit the Hôtel Lambert close by?"
"The Prince de Hansfeld!" repeated Bertha, with an astonishment mingled with compassionate interest and terror.
"In relating to you, under a feigned name, the fatal consequences of my marriage, my recital was strictly true in all save the name. Convinced at that period of the culpability of my wife—more especially after the last attempt I told you of—I had determined to make her quit France for ever. I should this very day have spread the report that I was about to depart with her, and entirely giving up the Hôtel Lambert. Carefully preserving the disguise beneath which I had formed friendships so dear and precious, I desired to live obscurely, or rather happily, in some retreat adjoining whatever retirement you should select. My ambition aimed at nothing beyond the enjoyment of your society, and the drawing still closer the bonds of our union; but these sweet dreams I am compelled to resign. When I left you yesterday I entered the apartments of Madame de Hansfeld, and provoked to find she had not commenced the preparations for her journey, exasperated equally by the positive refusal she gave to quitting Paris, I at length found courage to utter the fearful charge my tongue had hitherto refused to utter."
"And then you found she was not guilty," exclaimed Bertha. "Ah, my own heart told me such crimes were utterly impossible!"
"It was indeed so," replied M. de Hansfeld. "My wife justified herself with dignified frankness; the reasons by which she sought to vindicate herself appeared to me abundantly convincing; and an old servant, in whom I place the utmost confidence, confirmed my impression of its being utterly impossible for Madame de Hansfeld to have committed any of the three attempts upon my life. I can scarcely describe to you the contrary feelings by which I was agitated upon making this discovery; sometimes I applauded myself for having (in spite of the apparently most positive proofs of guilt) listened to the secret voice that whispered she was innocent; then I keenly reproached myself for the accusations and inconsistencies which must have tortured and perplexed my unfortunate wife, changing thereby the slender love she had ever borne me to aversion, if not to downright hatred. I reflected upon the misery my hateful suspicions must have caused her, and I felt that I had much to expiate, much for which to endeavour to obtain pardon. Still my self-upbraiding feelings failed to rekindle my affection for my wife. No! that passion was for ever extinguished amid the whirlwind of continual doubts and apprehensions in which I had lived; but for the very reason that I loved her no longer, I felt myself the more called upon to lavish on her my utmost care and attention. And now we come to the reason of my being here to reveal to you a circumstance of which I might, had I so wished, have kept you ever ignorant. But I considered it as base and dishonourable to create for myself, out of events which I now know so utterly false, an interest which might have served to cement still closer the bonds of affection which united us. Many a time have I been on the point of revealing to you my real name and station, but the fear of exciting your anger by this tardy confession has always restrained me. You now know all. Again I repeat I seek not to extenuate my fault or deny its turpitude; but take into consideration how much I had to endure, and how heavenly and soothing to my wounded heart was the gentle consolation I found here; you will then, perhaps, feel inclined to pardon me for having trembled at the bare apprehension of losing such happiness."
Pierre Raimond remained mute and pensive while M. de Hansfeld was thus speaking; by degrees the expression of bitter wrath faded from his harsh features, and just before Arnold had quite ceased, the old engraver looked earnestly towards his daughter, accompanying his regard with a movement of the head indicative of his approbation. Bertha, with downcast eyes, sat plunged in the deepest melancholy; she knew her father too well to expect that, after the prince's confession, he would admit him again to his house; and thus she saw torn from her the only charm which had enabled her to support her sufferings; the idea was too painful for her gentle nature to struggle against, and she resigned herself to utter hopelessness and despair. After a few instants' silence, Pierre Raimond extended his hand to M. de Hansfeld, saying,—
"You are right—quite right! you triumph even over my prejudices, since you nobly and voluntarily undertake a sacrifice—which may cost you much, but which must cost us more!"
"I must not hope to see you again?" inquired Arnold, sorrowfully.
"Impossible! to receive into my house the man who had saved my life, and even contract with him a degree of intimacy, warranted by the supposed equality of our conditions, was natural enough; relying, too, on the noble integrity of his heart and honourable principles, I might even blamelessly have sanctioned the brotherly affection he evinced for my child; but all that is at an end. A poor artisan like myself is not a befitting companion for a prince; neither can my daughter take his hand with an innocent freedom as she did at our last meeting; she can no longer dare to claim a sister's right to welcome one whom Providence has placed in a sphere so different from ours. No, no: I may pardon the artifice you employed to obtain our friendship—but I should be applauding and commending you for it were I henceforward to permit a continuance of your visits."
"I beseech you to believe——"
"I am fully aware how painful will be your separation from us; not, however, more so than it will be to us."
"Oh no!" murmured Bertha, unable to restrain her tears.
"But," resumed Pierre Raimond, "you can seek consolation in the pleasures which your rank and fortune can afford."
"The pleasures! alas, do you believe what you say!"
"Well, then, we will change the word, and say the duties it has pleased Providence to impose on you; you have to endeavour to erase from the mind of your wife all the pain you have made her suffer, and that to a generous mind is an occupation at once grand and noble. But what means have we of filling up the void left in our hearts by this sudden breaking off of an intimacy we delighted in? So long as this poor girl is permitted to remain with me I shall regret you less poignantly; but when I am left to myself——. My child had even become more indifferent to the many causes of unhappiness her home supplied, from the soothing pleasure and calm enjoyment she experienced in her visits here. And now what is left her? Nothing but vain regrets for a past happiness it would, perhaps, have been far better she had never known."
"Dearest father," replied Bertha, "do not afflict yourself for me; I will try and submit as I ought to this painful separation from our valued friend; besides, shall I not still have you to love and cherish?"
"True, my child; and I promise you that though he," added the old man, extending his hand to Arnold, who warmly pressed it between his own, "be no longer present to our view, he shall still live in our memories; and that we will never meet without at least mentioning his name."
"Then take courage, Monsieur Arnold," said Bertha, striving to smile even amid her fast-falling tears, "you hear what my father says—we shall never cease to cherish you in our recollections; and very, very often talk of you, and of the happy hours we have passed together. And now farewell! in this world farewell for ever!"
The violent emotion of M. de Hansfeld almost overpowered him; in a broken voice he at length contrived to murmur,—
"Adieu! dear and estimable friend and sister, adieu for ever! but oh, believe——"
Here, however, further utterance was denied him; his sobs burst forth with overwhelming force, and he hastily covered his face with his hands.
"You see," said he, after a momentary silence, during which he had succeeded in partly repressing his agitation, and addressing Pierre Raimond, who was contemplating him with deep sorrow, "still the same weak, feebleminded creature as ever; how must I sink in the estimation of one of your stern, rigid character!"
But without replying to this remark, Pierre Raimond abruptly exclaimed,—
"But, merciful heavens! now I consider, your wife's innocence of the frightful crime imputed to her is happily proved,—of that there is no doubt. But the pertinacity with which your life has been so repeatedly placed in danger; some one must be guilty of all this. At Trieste, or here, I should say it might have been effected by strangers; but while you were travelling, staying for the night merely at an inn, it appears to me it must have been the work of some person in your establishment, or at least a very singular concurrence of circumstances must exist."
"I have also asked myself the same question, but it is a mystery which resists every attempt I can make to solve it. While travelling we were accompanied but by three persons, an old servant who brought me up, a young female received into the family by Madame de Hansfeld from motives of compassion, and my chasseur, who also acted as courier, and had been a very long while in my service. To suspect my worthy old Frantz or a young girl of seventeen years of age would be preposterous; there is no one left, then, who could by probability have committed the crime but the chasseur. Now, though a most excellent and devoted servant, the unfortunate fellow is so extremely stupid and slow of imagination that it is even more impossible it could have been he than either Frantz or the young companion of my wife."
"Still, so great a persistance in these murderous attempts proves——"
"Stay, my worthy friend; the unjust suspicions I have already entertained have cost me too dear, and occasioned too much grief to myself and others for me to venture again to affix blame to any one except on certain grounds."
"But these attacks speak with a startling reality; there is no mistaking their import; and what if they are repeated?"
"I shall rejoice if it be so; that which yesterday I dreaded and sought to avoid, to-day I desire and court."
"Ah, Monsieur Arnold! if your life is valueless to yourself, do you owe nothing to the friends who would survive to lament your loss? And you do not intend making any efforts to discover the vile perpetrators of this shameful machination?"
"None whatever! why should I? am I not now here to say, Farewell for ever?"
And with these words M. de Hansfeld quitted the room in a state of mind bordering on desperation.
The morning arrived on which M. de Brévannes was to meet Madame de Hansfeld in the Jardin des Plantes. He went there at eleven o'clock.
The perusal of the black book—this mysterious confidant of the most intimate thoughts of Paula—had given Bertha's husband almost hopes: the secrets he believed he had surprised were thus summed up:—
"Madame de Hansfeld reproached herself for not hating M. de Brévannes, the murderer of Raphael, sufficiently."
"The prince made her so unhappy that she desired his death."
Iris had particularly desired M. de Brévannes not to give the princess the slightest hint of his being in possession of her most secret thoughts. This counsel served De Brévannes' plans too well for him not to follow it scrupulously.
Madame de Hansfeld came to this interview with less feeling of security than M. de Brévannes, whom she knew to be capable of spreading the most unworthy calumnies; and the effect of these calumnies might be very terrible, and reach De Morville.
Paula was thus under the necessity of proceeding very cautiously with a man for whom she entertained profound aversion, and to display towards him a feeling of kindness, in order to neutralise his slanders, temporarily at least.
But Madame de Hansfeld did not for a moment deceive herself. From the instant when De Brévannes should detect that he was trifled with, he would avenge himself by calumny, and his vengeance might have the most fatal effects on De Morville's love. The slightest suspicion might be mortal for this ideal, disinterested, romantic affection, based on reciprocal esteem and confidence.
Madame de Hansfeld went to the Jardin des Plantes, attended by Iris, in spite of the horror with which the young girl's crimes had inspired her. Under the circumstances she could not do without her.
Eleven o'clock struck when Paula and the Bohemian girl reached the entrance of the labyrinth. It was cold, although the day was fine and clear. In this season the visitors are very few, especially in this part, and the two women reached the famous cedar without meeting any one.
De Brévannes had been sitting beneath this immense tree for half an hour, and rose when he saw Madame de Hansfeld, who had the utmost difficulty to conceal her emotion when, after several years, she again encountered a man whom she had so many reasons for detesting. Her heart beat violently, and, in a low tone, she desired Iris to remain close beside her.
De Brévannes, vain and proud, interpreted this emotion to his own advantage. He gazed with ecstasy on the fine features of Paula, which the cold had mottled with the brightest tints. Her exquisite figure was displayed to the utmost advantage beneath a garnet-coloured velvet gown trimmed with ermine.
Bertha's husband allowed himself to be led into the most foolish hopes by reflecting that, by dint of persistance, he had obtained a rendezvous with a woman who combined so many charms with so much dignity; so many graces with an elevated position in society; which latter, in the eyes of De Brévannes, was by no means the least of the princess's attractions.
"Full of hope and love, M. de Brévannes approached Paula."
Full of hope and love, he approached Paula, saying, as he did so, respectfully,—
"Madame, with what impatience I have awaited this moment—how deep is my obligation for its concession—for such extreme kindness to me!"
"You know better than any one else, sir, by whom such a step is imposed upon me," said Madame de Hansfeld, alluding to De Brévannes' threats.
"I understand you, madame," said De Brévannes; "but if you knew into what a distracted state an ardent passion felt for many years can throw you!—Oh! how often have I remembered with rapture the time when I saw you every day—when, under the guise of the love I feigned for your aunt——"
"Enough, sir, enough; you did not, unquestionably, request this interview to talk to me of the past, and which for so many reasons you ought to forget."
"Forget!—can I ever forget? This recollection has effaced every other memory in my life."
"Deign to answer me, sir! When you persisted so obstinately in requesting this interview, what was your object?"
"To tell you of my love, more intense than ever—to interest you—almost in spite of yourself, in the torments I endure."
"Listen, M. de Brévannes," said Paula, with a chilling air. "Two years since you told me of your love, and I did not believe you. The silence you have since kept as to this pretended passion has proved to me that your avowal was mere gallantry. When I was informed of your pertinacious resolve to meet me here, I attributed it to quite a different motive than that of alluding to a love which offends me, and but recalls atrocious calumnies."
"Then I will not again speak of this love. I will content myself with adoring you without saying a word, awaiting every thing from time. For the proof of the sincerity of my feelings towards you, allow me only to see you sometimes. I could have requested some mutual acquaintance to have introduced me to you, but I preferred having your consent from your own lips before I ventured on that step."
"I receive only a few persons who are very intimate with me," replied Paula, formally. "M. de Hansfeld lives in solitude, and it is impossible for me, particularly after your strange avowal, to change my habits in any way."
De Brévannes could not repress a movement of vexation and anger, which reminded Madame de Hansfeld that she must be cautious with him; and she added, with a somewhat more friendly air,—
"Reflect, I beg of you, on all that occurred in Florence, and you must then confess that it is impossible for me to receive you, even if I were willing to do so."
These last words, only spoken by Madame de Hansfeld to soften the effect of her refusal, appeared to De Brévannes very encouraging. He recollected the confidences of the black book, and interpreted the constrained coldness of the princess into the reserve and dissimulation of a love which she would not then confess. He thought he ought to have consideration for these scruples, relying that, after some further scruples of ceremony, Paula would accord him opportunities of seeing her. De Brévannes replied,—
"I dare not again entreat you, madame, to allow me to be formally presented to you; yet, what unpleasant result could occur?—for, believe me, that, far from abusing the favour, I would use it with the utmost caution."
"I assure you, sir, that it is impossible under any pretext. What could I say to M. de Hansfeld?"
"That I had had the honour of knowing you in Italy—and besides, a married man," he added, with a smile, "never inspires distrust. I might, even if it were only for form's sake, have the honour of bringing Madame de Brévannes, although she is not worthy of occupying your attention for a moment."
This request seemed to strike Paula very forcibly.
Knowing the prince was deeply enamoured of Bertha, she could not conceal an ironical smile when she heard De Brévannes speak of presenting his wife at the Hôtel Lambert.
A vague presentiment, which she could not account for, whispered her that this circumstance would one day serve her hatred against De Brévannes. She replied, with assumed embarrassment,—
"If it were possible, I should have the greatest pleasure in knowing Madame de Brévannes, for I have many reasons to believe that you judge her too severely. Thus, in case I could arrange to receive you, it would be only—and I beg you to remark it—only for the sake of Madame de Brévannes; and I say this most frankly to you, sir."
"It is always thus; women never have a more intimate friend than her whose husband they are delighted to carry off. She has betrayed herself," said De Brévannes to himself; and then he added aloud, "You must see, madame, how happy I should be with any and every thing that could make my friendship with you more intimate. Allow me, then, for the love of Madame de Brévannes," he added with a fresh smile, "to present her to you, only asking for myself the privilege of sometimes accompanying her."
"It must be very seldom, sir, especially during the commencement of my acquaintance with Madame de Brévannes," added Madame de Hansfeld, after a brief pause.
"I do not desire to penetrate the motives which induce you to act thus, madame, but I submit to them." And he thought to himself,—
"This is unquestionably a master-piece of skill. The prince is jealous, and she is anxious in the first instance to remove her husband's suspicion and acquire my wife's confidence."
"On these conditions," replied Madame de Hansfeld, casting down her eyes, "I will allow of this introduction to Madame de Brévannes; but it must be distinctly understood that you never again breathe to me one word of a love as vain as it is wrong."
"I will request a modification of this clause, madame. I will undertake to do every thing in the world to try and forget you: only, in order to encourage and fortify myself in my good resolution, you will sometimes permit me to come and tell you how far I have succeeded; and as, according to your desires, I shall see you but very seldom at your own abode, you will, perhaps, deign sometimes to accord me the privilege of meeting you elsewhere."
"Sir!——"
"Only to hear me say to you that I am endeavouring to forget you. The sacrifice I make is surely great enough to allow you to grant me this compensation?"
"This is a singular way of forgetting people; but if you believe it will have its effect, then, sir, some day I may again consent to see you."
"Ah! madame, what excessive goodness!"
"But mind, if I am not satisfied with the progress of your indifference, you will not obtain a single interview from me."
"I feel confident that I may promise you, madame, that you shall have no cause to regret the favour you grant me."
After a moment's silence, Paula replied,—
"You must think it very surprising, sir, after what formerly passed between us——"
"Madame——"
"I will not add another word. One day you shall know the motive of my conduct and my generosity; but it is growing late, and I must return home. Tell me who is the person who will introduce Madame de Brévannes to me?"
"Madame de Saint-Pierre, cousin to M. de Luceval: she has already offered me her friendly services."
"Yes, I have frequently met her in society. Remember your promise, sir, and I will assent to the request."
"And you leave me already? Oh! I had so much to say to you. One more word—one more—I entreat of you."
"Impossible!—Iris, come."
The young girl followed her mistress, descending the steps of the labyrinth, after having exchanged a meaning look with M. de Brévannes.
Bertha's husband was now a still greater dupe of Iris's stratagem with respect to the black book, as, in consequence of the revelation of the gipsy girl as to Raphael's infidelity, Paula had not testified the horror she must have felt at the sight of the man who had slain her betrothed lover.
This subject gave additional authority to the collection of Madame de Hansfeld's private thoughts.
De Brévannes, as elated as overjoyed at the desire of Paula to form an acquaintance with Bertha, believed himself the only and real motive for seeking this introduction, which, no doubt, at a later period, would assure and facilitate his daily intimacy with Paula.
Whilst awaiting with extreme and confident impatience the moment of again inspecting, through the medium of the black book, the real impression caused on the mind of Madame de Hansfeld, De Brévannes returned home with a light and contented heart.
A short time previously Bertha had returned from her father's, dejected and dispirited. She had seen De Hansfeld, no doubt for the last time, and was thus compelled for ever to renounce the sweet and dear hopes in which she had so fondly indulged.
Learning that his wife was at home, De Brévannes, on entering, went straight to her apartment.
De Brévannes did not for a moment consider how humiliating and odious was the part he was preparing for his wife: no consideration, no scruple, ever prevented this man from going straight to his purpose. Under the existing circumstances, and reflecting how he could make use of Bertha as a means to his end, he said, with a kind of villainous cynicism,—
"This is the first time that my marriage has ever been of any use to me."
He still thought it necessary to assume towards his wife a tone less harsh than usual, in order to make her decide on allowing herself to be presented to the Princess de Hansfeld. Bertha visited but very little, she was so very timid; and thus, anticipating some difficulties on her part, he preferred overcoming them by mildness, as his threats would be vain before the obstinate refusal of his wife.
She so little expected her husband's visit, that she was giving free vent to her tears at the recollection that she should never again see M. de Hansfeld. For the first time she felt the full force and extent of her love. She had courage enough to refrain from cursing this cruel separation, when she reflected on the trouble in which a guilty passion might involve her existence. No longer seeing Arnold, she would be, at least, out of the reach of that danger. Such a consolation always costs many tears, and thus this young lady had hardly time to dry her eyes before her husband was by her side.
Bertha had sufficient resolution not to surprise M. de Brévannes by the sight of her tears, but yet they annoyed him, for the transition was rather extreme to begin talking to his wife of the pleasures of the world and her presentation to Madame de Hansfeld. Repressing, however, a feeling of impatience, he said, in a gentle tone, to Bertha, and affecting not to see her chagrin (as thereby he could more rapidly open on his own desire),—
"Pardon me, my love, I disturb you."
"No, no, Charles, you do not at all disturb me," said Bertha, wiping away the fresh tears that sprung to her eyes, and which she considered as reproaches for her fault.
"Have you seen your father to-day?"
"Yes; you gave me leave to go there when I——"
"Oh," said De Brévannes, interrupting Bertha, "I am not reproaching you! I do not like your father's temper, and I could not possibly live with him; but I do justice to his frankness of character, the austerity of his principles, and I am perfectly content when I know you are with him."
Bertha had nothing to reproach herself withal, and yet her heart smote her as if she had abused her husband's confidence, when, for the first time for a long while, he spoke kindly to her, and she looked down and made no reply.
De Brévannes proceeded,—
"Then these visits to your father are your only amusement since our return to Paris. With the exception of that first night at the Français, you have been nowhere; I really must draw you from your solitude."
"You are too kind, Charles. You know I do not like society, I have been so long accustomed to the life I lead; therefore, I pray you not to occupy yourself with what you call my amusements."
"Come, come, you are a child, and must let me think and decide for you in this matter: you will not repent it."
"But, Charles——"
"Oh, I shall be as obstinate as ever, and more so! for I mean it to be very agreeable to you in spite of yourself; when once you have got over your timidity, the world, which inspires you with so much alarm, will have a thousand attractions for you."
Bertha looked at her husband, quite surprised at the extraordinary change in his accent and manner. He spoke with such singular mildness at the very moment when she was reproaching herself for feeling too strong an inclination for M. de Hansfeld. The anguish, we might almost say the remorse, of the young wife increased in proportion to the apparent kindness of her husband, and she replied, with a blush,—
"Really, Charles, I am very grateful to you for all you would do for me; I am even astonished!"
"Poor, little dear, without thinking of it you reproach me severely."
"Oh, pardon me, I did not intend!"
"But I receive the reproach because I deserve it. Yes, since our return I have neglected you so much that the least attention on my part astonishes you. But patience, I have my revenge to take. That is not all; they think me an Othello, and believe it is from jealousy that I conceal my treasure from all eyes. I will reply to these maligners by taking my treasure into a great deal of society this winter, and thus prove that you inspire me with as much pride as confidence."
"I can only reply to such kind offers by accepting them, although with regret and solely from obedience to you; for I much prefer solitude, and, if you will allow me, Charles, I will live as I have done hitherto."
"No, no, I tell you; I will be as self-willed as yourself."
"Well, then, be it so. I will do what you desire; only be so kind as promise me that I shall not be forced to amuse myself too much," said Bertha, smiling bitterly. "I will go into the world since you desire it; but not too often, I hope?"
"Make yourself easy; when you have been there a few times, it will be I, I am sure, who will be obliged to restrain your wishes to return to it."
"Oh, you need not fear that, Charles!"
"You will see—you will see."
"I find myself so constrained in the society of persons whom I do not know, and I seem to see ill-natured critics in all who are around me."
"You are much too handsome not to excite the envy and malevolence of the women; but the admiration of the men avenges you, without considering that amongst the persons to whom I wish to present you there are some of such high rank, and even so exclusive, that your admission amongst them must create much jealousy."
"What do you mean, Charles?"
"You will soon learn, my love, and I shall have great pleasure in telling you. I am delighted to see you enter so fully into my views; I expected, I will tell you, to have more resistance to overcome."
"If I consented so quickly, it was from fear of displeasing you. Say but a word, and you will see with what facility I will renounce pleasures no doubt much envied."
"Assuredly that is a word I shall not say, my dear love; far from it, I shall say one which, on the contrary, would prevent you from renouncing those vain joys of the world, and which you seem so greatly to undervalue."
"And that word——"
"Do you recollect the night at the Théâtre Français?"
"Certainly."
"I mean do you remember the circumstances which have most attracted the public attention, not on the stage, but amongst the auditory?"
"Why, first there was Madame Girard's strange head-dress."
"Yes, the sobieska, certainly; and then?"
Bertha was so far from expecting what her husband was about to say to her, that she reflected a minute or so before she replied,—
"I do not know; was it the Marquise de Luceval?"
"You are, at the same time, drawing nearer to the truth and the box of the person to whom I allude."
"In what way?"
"In the next box to Madame de Luceval do you not remember a very handsome foreign princess, of whom all the world was speaking in terms of admiration?"
"A foreign princess!" repeated Bertha mechanically, whilst her heart was struck with an indefinable presentiment.
"Yes, the Princess de Hansfeld."
"What! the princess! It is she to whom——"
"I hope to present you the day after to-morrow."
"Oh, never, never!" exclaimed Bertha, involuntarily. To take advantage of this offer, which gave her the means of seeing the prince again, seemed to her most odious treachery.
De Brévannes, although astonished at his wife's exclamation, at first believed that she refused from timidity, and said,—
"Come, come, what a child you are! Although a a very high lady, the Princess de Hansfeld is one of the plainest persons in the world, and you will please her very much, I am sure."
"My dear Charles, I beg of you not to introduce me to the princess, but leave me in the retirement in which I have hitherto lived."
"My dearest girl, I beg of you, in my turn," said De Brévannes, repressing his ire, "not to have any such whim and bad taste. But just now you decided on doing what I desired, and yet now you wish to withdraw your promise. Be consistent, pray."
"It is really impossible! No, no, Charles, I beg of you, do not exact this from me."
"Really now, this is quite silly! You obstinately refuse what so many would sue for as an unexpected boon."
"I know it, I believe it; and, therefore, if I refuse, believe that I have my reasons for so doing."
"Reasons! reasons! and what may they be?"
"None in particular, but I have no wish to go into society."
De Brévannes amazed at this resistance vainly endeavoured to detect the cause. He was persuaded that the love of retirement was not the sole motive for this refusal, and, for a moment, he believed his wife jealous of the princess, and therefore replied, with a sort of kind air,—
"Be candid now, conceal nothing from me,—is there not a little jealousy in this?"
"Jealousy?"
"Yes; are you foolish enough to imagine that I am smitten by the princess?"
"No, I have no such idea, I assure you."
"What, then, can it be?" cried De Brévannes, giving way to his long-repressed impatience.
"Charles, be kind! be generous!"
"I am weary of being so, madame; and, as you have no regard for my entreaties, you shall obey my commands, and the day after to-morrow you will accompany me to Madame de Hansfeld's. Do you understand me now?"
"Charles, one word, I pray. It is to be agreeable to myself, is it not, that you wish to take me to the princess's?"
"Unquestionably,—and what then?"
"Why, since it was for me that you formed the idea, I beseech you to give it up!"
"You shall obey me!"
"Oh! go by yourself! It can be of very little consequence whether or not——"
"It is of so much consequence that you must go,—do you comprehend that?"
"It pains me to refuse you, but as you cannot force me to go——"
"Well?"
"I will not go!"
"You will not go?"
"No!"
"Your obstinacy is most absurd; and you think to lay down the law to me?"
"I act as I feel I ought."
"By refusing to go to Madame de Hansfeld's?"
"Yes, Charles."
"I am not in a humour to guess riddles, and I will therefore end our conversation in two words: if you persist in your refusal, you shall never see your father again as long as you live, but in a week you shall return to Lorraine, which you shall never again quit; I have a right to fix your place of residence. You know my will is inflexible, and therefore reflect in time."
Bertha bowed her head without any reply. Her husband could, in truth, send her to Lorraine, separate her from her father, of whom she was the sole support, as, by a just feeling of pride, Pierre Raimond refused the pension which De Brévannes had hitherto allowed him. This was not all: by obeying her husband, Bertha could conceal from the engraver the reason why she continued to see him; for he would a thousand times have preferred that his daughter should go to Lorraine, than that she should obey her husband's commands, when those commands brought her into contact with Arnold.
One moment she was on the point of confessing to De Brévannes the motive of her resistance; but reflecting on the ferocious jealousy of her husband, his anger against the engraver, from whom he would, perhaps, separate her for ever, she rejected this idea.
Unfortunately for Bertha, there was no mid course between the two alternatives. Her first impulse had been to resist with determination her husband's desires, because the tears she had shed at the remembrance of Arnold enlightened her as to the danger of this love, hitherto so calm, and thus she was forced to bow before so fatal a necessity. She replied to her husband, with a tone of despair,—
"You exact it, sir, and I obey."
"Really, it is very fortunate for you, madame."
"Only remember I have done all in my power to resist your commands; I have conjured you, supplicated you, to allow me to live in retirement, and it was you—you who would take me from it, in order to throw me into the whirlpool of the world," said Bertha, growing animated as she spoke,—"of the world, in which I have neither support nor counsel, where I shall be exposed to all the dangers which beset a young and absolutely isolated woman."
"Isolated!—but I, madame?"
"Hear me, sir! I am scarcely twenty-two years of age, you have weighed me down with unkindness and neglect,—I love you no longer; I am resolutely determined never to forget my duties, but, although perfectly confident in myself, there are certain perils to which I do not wish to expose myself."
This time Bertha had struck true by vaguely arousing the savage jealousy of De Brévannes, and she hoped thus to make him reflect upon the results of throwing a young woman, without love for or confidence in her husband, into the midst of the dissipations of society.
De Brévannes was really amazed at this new language, and looked at Bertha with irritation mingled with surprise.
"What do you say, madame?" he exclaimed. "Do you wish to make me understand that you are capable of such indignity as to forget what I have done for you? Take care, madame, take care; do not sport with such ideas, they are too serious; reflect well that self-love is a thousand times more irritable and more ardent for vengeance than love itself. If ever you had but the thought of wronging me——But no," he said, turning livid with the bare idea, "do not let us even mention such an idea—it is too serious."
"And it is because a serious day may arrive, sir, that I do suggest the idea; and as a virtuous woman, I entreat you to leave me in my retirement, and not voluntarily expose me to perils which, perhaps, I may not have the strength to resist. I owe you much, no doubt, but believe me, do not compel me also to calculate the tears I have shed, for then I could believe the debt acquitted."
"What audacity!"
"I would rather be audacious before I had done wrong, than hypocritical afterwards. Once more, for the sake of your repose as well as mine, I entreat you to leave me in my obscure anti unknown existence. Then I can promise you that I shall never fail in my duty; otherwise——"
"Otherwise?"
"You will cast me almost defenceless into the midst of the perils of the world. I know my duties, and shall endeavour to struggle; but I tell you, circumstances might occur when my powers would fail me."
The good sense, the frankness of this language, made De Brévannes' jealous blood boil again in his veins; he knew too well his wrongs to Bertha, not to see that she struggled solely and absolutely from duty. Yet duty without affection is often powerless against the incitements of passion.
This man's hell began. Placed between his jealousy and his love, he hesitated between the desire to draw his connexion with Madame de Hansfeld more closely through the introduction of Bertha, and the fear of seeing his wife surrounded by admirers.
The thought of being jealous of the prince, whom he only knew from the description of his singularities, did not occur to him for a moment; but independently of him, he conjured up a host of fearful phantoms, or rather attractive adorers. Already he saw himself mocked at, pointed at with the finger; he who had made a marriage of love, ridiculous as it was, as he said to himself,—he who had sacrificed his vanity, his ambition, his cupidity, to a poor obscure girl, was not to be safe from a painful destiny! Was he to be always a dupe in the eyes of the world, as well after as before his marriage?
At these thoughts De Brévannes shook with passion.
Now he saw in Bertha's frankness a guarantee for the future; now, on the contrary, he saw a kind of cynic defiance, until at last he was so actually alarmed at the language of a virtuous woman, who, disdained by her husband, whom she no longer loved, was at length disabused as to human frailty, and preferred avoiding, to confronting, danger.
Still not to introduce Bertha to the princess was to renounce a future which he contemplated as so brilliant.
The sacrifice was impossible, and like those who, despairing of making themselves beloved, hope to make themselves feared, he attempted to intimidate Bertha, and said to her brutally,—
"When a woman has the effrontery to profess such principles openly, madame, she has no need to go into the world to deceive her husband."
"Enough, sir, enough," said Bertha proudly; "since you interpret me thus I have nothing to add. I will accompany you when you please to the Princess de Hansfeld."
"And be on your guard as to what you do; at least, remember this—and I repeat it designedly to you—love may be indulgent, generous; pride, never; and as I should be pitiless towards you if you have the bad taste to conduct yourself improperly, so I will crush you, break you to atoms without remorse. So mind," he added, with lips contracted by passion, and taking Bertha rudely by the arm.
His wife very calmly disengaged herself and replied to him,—
"With any one but me, sir, you would, perhaps, be wrong in thus contrasting the attraction of danger to the attraction which love may offer. Believe me, when the respect of duty is powerless, terror is but vain."
And with these words Bertha quitted the room, leaving M. de Brévannes in a state of extreme irritation and intense anxiety.
Madame de Hansfeld returned extremely satisfied with her interview with De Brévannes. When she reflected on the proposition he had made of presenting Bertha to her, Paula experienced singular resentment. In the first place, knowing Arnold's love for Madame de Brévannes, she had wished to play a perfidious and wicked trick on De Brévannes, hoping at the same time to enjoy De Hansfeld's confusion when recognised by Bertha, for Paula was ignorant that Arnold had disclosed his real name and rank to Pierre Raimond.
When she told Iris of the expected introduction of Madame de Brévannes at the Hôtel Lambert, the gipsy girl exclaimed, with a bound of joy,—
"Now you have nothing more to desire; your wishes shall be realised whenever you please to give me the signal."
In vain Paula had attempted to make Iris explain herself, she had been obstinately silent after having merely replied,—
"Reflect well, godmother, and you will understand me."
The princess did reflect.
First, her thoughts dwelt on M. de Hansfeld, and she inquired of herself what were the feelings with which he had inspired lier after his suspicions of her having committed such horrid crimes. She felt as much hatred as contempt for him,—hatred for a man capable of conceiving such suspicions,—contempt for a man so weak as not boldly to accuse the individual he suspected.
Paula was doubly unjust: she forgot that Arnold had passionately loved her, and that all his sufferings had arisen in consequence of this struggle between his love and his doubts.
It was strange, she had never loved her husband with love—she was passionately enamoured of De Morville—and yet she was wounded at the prince's love for Bertha. Nothing is more absurd, and yet more common, than the jealousy of pride.
When Madame de Hansfeld's thoughts dwelt on De Morville, in a moment these sinister words appeared before her in letters of flame,—
If I were a widow!
And she dared not confess to herself that she would have been satisfied had one of the attempts of Iris succeeded.
We have already said that nothing is more fatal than to familiarise the thought and simple supposition, which, when realised, would become crime. How monstrous soever they appear at first, by degrees the mind admits them the more easily, as they the more and more incessantly flatter the interests they subserve.
This is a sad truth; but the perpetual sight of an easy prey awakens sanguinary appetites, however languid.
Returned home, Paula reflected for a long time on the mysterious words of Iris, in reference to the presentation of Bertha at the Hôtel Lambert,—
"Now you have nothing more to desire; your wishes shall be realised whenever you please to give me the signal."
A secret instinct told her, that from the meeting of the prince, De Brévannes, and Bertha, serious complications would result; but what benefit would that be to her love for De Morville?
At this moment Madame de Hansfeld was interrupted by Iris.
"What want you?" she inquired sharply.
"Godmother, a messenger has just brought me a cover addressed to me, in which was a letter for you."
Paula took the letter and shuddered as she did so.