She recognised De Morville's writing. The note contained only these words,—
"Circumstances, madame, force me to an extreme step. At any risk I address this note to your young companion. A fearful and final blow has overwhelmed the unhappy man to whom you have already deigned to extend your hand, and he has not despaired of at least your pity. This very day, with the magic words, Faust and Childe Harold, you can, if not restore his life, at least soothe his agony."
For a moment Madame de Hansfeld did not fully comprehend the purport of this letter. Then suddenly addressing herself to Iris,—
"What is to-day?"
"Thursday, godmother."
"Thursday! no, surely not," said Madame de Hansfeld. "I thought—but——" she added, with anxiety, "is not this mid-Lent?"
"Yes, godmother; I have seen some masquers pass along the streets."
"Oh, I understand—I understand," exclaimed Paula, and hastening to her secrétaire she wrote rapidly,—
"This evening between twelve and one—at the Opera in the same place as before. Faust and Childe Harold! a green riband at the hood of the Domino."
Then sealing and giving the note to Iris, she said to her,—
"This is the answer: give it to the messenger."
Iris left the room.
* * * * *
That evening at half-past twelve, at the Opera ball, Leon de Morville and Madame de Hansfeld, both masked as they had been at their first interview, met at the end of the corridor of the second circle in the left of the audience, and entered the anteroom of the stage-box in which they had had their first and last conversation.
Madame de Hansfeld was horror-struck at the change in M. de Morville's features, and the expression of despairing grief which agitated them.
"Alas! alas! what can thus distress you?" she exclaimed, throwing her mask at her feet.
"One word first," said De Morville; "I was not then deceived: this mysterious friend, who wrote to me without revealing her name——"
"Was I; yes, yes, your heart guessed rightly; but in heaven's name what disturbs you thus! is your life menaced?"
"Every thing is menaced,—my life, my reason, my love, my honour."
"What mean you?"
"I mean that I will kill myself,—I mean that the worst passions are contending within me,—I mean that I do not even recognise myself,—I mean that to my love for you I will sacrifice all that is most dear, most holy, most sacred amongst men, even if I become perjured and a parricide!"
"Oh! how you frighten me!"
"Paula, do you love me as I love you?"
"Am I not here?"
"Then you do love me?"
"Yes, oh yes!"
"Paula, let us fly; come—come."
"And your oaths?"
"Unheeded!"
"Your mother?"
"Forsaken!"
"Ah! what do you say?"
"Come—I say. This love is fatal; our destiny will be thus accomplished."
"For mercy's sake calm yourself; remember that it is but a few days since you wrote me, 'An insurmountable obstacle separates us.'"
"I can remember nothing but that I love you—I love you—I love you! This love has been subjected to every trial, it has increased in silence, it has resisted your affected indifference, it has penetrated your hidden tenderness, it has rendered me regardless of what I adored, disdainful of what I honoured. It burns my blood, it makes my reason wander, it overflows my heart. Paula, if you love me let us fly, or I die!"
"Alas! De Morville, and can you believe that you are suffering alone? Suffer—oh, no! I may now defy a life of torments; I can die; I have been loved, as I have dreamed of being loved—loved with madness, loved without calculation, scruple, or remorse—loved with such blindness that you do not even suspect the enormity of the sacrifices you offer to me, the depth of the abyss into which you would precipitate us."
"Paula, Paula, do not speak to me thus—you drive me mad: you do not know—no, you do not know, what is the seduction of a single thought, which absorbs all others in its current, always becoming deeper, wider, swifter. I, who until now could walk with head erect, dare no longer do so—there are looks I avoid—I dare not meet——"
"You? you?"
"Do you know what I have often said to myself—since an oath (which I will no longer observe) kept me estranged from you?"
"Do not speak thus."
"Well! first reflecting on the frail health of your husband, I said to myself, M. de Hansfeld may die—that would not afflict me; if his life depended on me, I should let him perish. Then I have advanced even farther; I have—but no, no—I dare not tell you this—no, not to you; I should overwhelm you with horror. Oh! cursed be the day when for the first time that thought came across my brain."
And De Morville hid his face in his hands.
The last words he had pronounced were destined long to find an echo in Paula's heart.
She was at once alarmed, and yet almost happy at the strange moral complicity with which De Morville, until then so generous and noble-minded, shared her homicidal wishes towards the prince. In this complete overthrow of the principles of the man by whom she was adored she saw a fresh proof of the influence she exercised.
Yet, by one of those contradictions, one of those feelings of devotion so common in the female mind, Madame de Hansfeld promised herself to do all in her power to remove henceforth and for ever such thoughts from De Morville's mind, and that because, perhaps, from that very moment she herself was taking the most criminal resolutions. Whatever might result, she determined that De Morville should never reproach himself hereafter for the wishes that had escaped him in a moment of frenzy.
De Morville's head was pressed in his two hands with agony, when Madame de Hansfeld said to him in a gentle but firm voice,—
"I will have courage for both of us. I will remind you of oaths formerly so binding with you, and which even the very violence of your love ought not to make you forget. Pray, De Morville, be yourself. You allude to fresh sorrows; what are they? Is your mother in worse health?"
"What if she were?"
"Oh! for mercy's sake do not talk thus. Believe me, a woman may be proud to see her influence for a moment superior to the noblest principles; but that is on condition that these principles resume their ascendancy. I should hate myself and you, if, instead of that generous heart which I have so proudly loved, I found now only a selfish and exclusive one. Would that be the proper fruit of our love?"
De Morville shook his head sorrowfully. "Alas! I fear," he said, in a gloomy tone, "I have no longer strength to resist the current which sweeps me along. Nothing of all that I formerly venerated is now strong enough to arrest my course. Your love before every thing! Perish all else!"
"Happily I have the courage you lack."
"Oh, you do not love me?"
"Not love you? But let us not talk of that at this moment, and tell me under what excitement you were when you wrote me the note which so much alarmed me, and has brought me hither this evening?"
"Not knowing how else to address you, I relied on the fidelity of your young companion; and besides, the billet was incomprehensible to all but you. Had it fallen into M. de Hansfeld's hands it could not have compromised you."
"I recognised in this your usual tact; but the cause of this note?"
"Your calmness makes me ashamed of myself. I, too, have courage; and I feel my obligation to you for recalling me to myself. Well, then, this it is which has now overwhelmed me. Yesterday my mother sent for me,— she was weaker, and suffering more than usual. I hardly dare to think that for some time past I have been less attentive to her."
"Ah! you do not know the pain you give me to hear you speak thus."
"She told me, after some hesitation, that she felt her strength exhausted; and that she knew she could not long survive. She expected from me a fresh proof of my submission to her wishes; it would make her last moment's tranquil. I begged her to explain, and she spoke to me of one of our most intimate connexions, whom she named to me, one of our oldest friends, who had a charming and accomplished daughter."
"I see it all," said Madame de Hansfeld, with firmness; "for heaven's sake, proceed."
"Proceed! Why should I tell you more? My mother urged me to promise her that I would be married whilst she was yet alive, that was, immediately. I refused. She asked me if I had any objection to make to the beauty, birth, and qualities of the young lady. I replied that I acknowledged them all, and that she was remarkably accomplished; but I told my mother, too, that I would not be married. Then she began to weep. Strong emotion is too distressing for her, weak as she is, and she fainted. I believed that I was going to lose her, and all my tenderness revived. When she came to herself, my mother pressed my hand, and with cutting tenderness begged my pardon for having sought to thwart me in my wishes; adding, that she would not again advert to the subject. But I know, I feel that I have struck her a deep blow by my refusal, the consequences of which I dare not even think of. She had built all her greatest, her final hopes on this marriage. Yesterday she was worse. I found her deeply dejected, but she did not say one word relative to this union. Yet, in spite of her soft and saddened smile, I read all her disappointment in her features, and left her with my heart rent in twain. Her failing health will not, I fear, withstand such violent shocks. Well, then, tell me, Paula, can any lot be more wretched than mine? My senses seem to have forsaken me. Was it not sufficient to be separated from you by a solemn oath? It interdicted me from the present, but then at least it left me the future. Now it is necessary, to render my mother's dying hours easy and tranquil, that I should resign myself to this hateful, impossible marriage, which will destroy even the faint hopes which remain to me. Once again, it shall not be! no, no, a thousand times no! Paula, if you love me—if you are capable of sacrificing as much as I sacrifice for you—and we shall not have to blush in each other's presence——"
"No; for both of us will then have trampled under foot our oaths and our duties," said Paula, interrupting De Morville.
"We will fly to the world's end, and——"
"And the first effervescence of love passed, the hatred and contempt we shall feel for each other will avenge those we have sacrificed. My dear De Morville, your reason wanders."
"What would you have me do?"
"Not perjure yourself; not hasten your mother's death."
"Renounce you! marry another! never—never!"
"Listen to me. I declare to you that I cannot love a man cowardly and perjured, not even if it were for my sake that he basely perjured himself. My self-love, as a woman, is satisfied when with you for a few moments passion has conquered duty. This is sufficing. You have sworn never to say a word which could induce me to forget my duty,—you will keep this oath."
"But——"
"I will keep it for you if you are ever tempted to break it."
"And this marriage?" said De Morville, with bitterness,—"this marriage, you advise me to consent to it, no doubt?"
"No."
"No? Ah! then I doubt no longer,—you do love me!"
"Love you! Oh, believe me, this marriage would be a blow even more severe to me than to you," said Paula, with emotion; "but," she added, "we must consider your poor mother, and not positively refuse to obey her; we must temporise; you must say you have re-considered your first refusal, and that you wish for time to reflect before you come to a determination so very serious; in fact, gain time."
"But what then—what then?"
"How do we know what the future may produce? Let us thank the destiny of the hour, the present moment—to-morrow is not ours."
"But when may I write to you—see you again? What will be the end of this love that burns, devours, kills me?"
"And it burns, devours, kills me also,—you do not suffer alone: is not that enough?"
"But what hope have I?"
"I know not. Does love for love go for nothing?"
"But if I could only see you sometimes at your own house or in society?"
"At my house,—oh, no! in society,—your oath forbids."
"You are pitiless."
"Soothe your mother, not by promises, but by delay. In a week I will write to you."
"To tell me——"
"You will see,—perhaps you will be more happy than you expect!"
"Indeed! Oh, tell me—tell me."
"Do not build any vain hopes on my words. Remember this: I will never permit you to fail in your oath,—but as I love you passionately——"
"Well?"
"The rest is my secret."
"Oh, how cruel you are!"
"Very cruel! for I wish you to write me to-morrow that your mother is in better health, as you have been able to tranquillise her mind. I shall be so happy to hear this,—for I reproach myself bitterly with her grief, as it is I who have involuntarily caused it."
"I promise you; and you?"
"In a week you shall know my secret. I the less regret not having received you at my own residence,—we are about, I fear, to break through our habits of solitude. M. de Hansfeld has begged me to receive several persons, amongst whom are M. and Madame de Brévannes. Do you know them?"
"I meet M. de Brévannes sometimes. They say his wife is a charming creature."
"Charming! and I fear for my husband's peace that he thinks so too."
"What do you say?"
"I believe he is deeply enamoured of Madame de Brévannes."
"The prince?"
"He is perfectly free in his actions, as I am in mine."
"And you refuse to receive me at your hotel, when your husband——"
Paula interrupted De Morville.
"I refuse you, in the first place, because you have sworn never to come to my residence; and then, blamable or not, my husband's conduct ought not to have any influence over mine. There are delicacies of position which no one can better appreciate than you. In a week you shall know more."
"In a week,—not earlier?"
"No."
"How wretched I shall be!"
"Very wretched, truly! You came here overwhelmed, despairing, reproaching yourself for your harshness to your mother, forgetting all that a man like you should never forget. I calm you, console you, offer you the means of at once conciliating your mother's wishes and our interests."
"Yes, yes, you are right. Pardon,—I came here with bad thoughts,—you made me blush, and have again raised me in my own esteem,—you have recalled me to my honour, my plighted word, and my duty to my mother. Thanks, thanks; you are right,—why should we think of to-morrow, when the present hour is so happy? Thanks for coming so immediately when I wrote you that I was overwhelmed by anguish and despair. But now I feel inspired with strength and hope,—my heart beats high: you have saved my life, my honour,—my courage recovers its temper in the fire of your love. I feel I am beloved! I shut my eyes,—I allow myself to be guided by you,—order and I obey, I have no longer any will of my own,—I intrust to you the fate of that love, which is my sole—your sole existence."
"Yes, my sole existence!" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, with repressed excitement. "Have implicit confidence in me, and you will see what a woman can do who loves. Write me to-morrow about your mother, and in a week you shall know my secret. Until then, except the letter I request, mind not a word—this I exact."
"Not a word! and why?"
"You shall know,—but promise me what I request, for the sake of our mutual love."
"I do promise."
"Now, then, adieu."
"Already?"
"It must be so. Am I not very imprudent to be here at all?"
"Adieu, then, Paula—your hand,—one kiss—but one!"
"Adieu, then, Paula. Your hand,—one kiss—but one!"
"Your oath! your oath!" said Paula, resuming her mask, and refusing to take off her glove.
She left the box, passed through the crowd, and quitted the theatre.
Iris awaited her in a hackney-coach as before.
During their drive home, Madame de Hansfeld was gloomy and silent. She entered the Hôtel Lambert by the small secret door, and went to her apartments, accompanied by Iris.
Paula's impassioned love for De Morville was at its height,—she felt herself capable of the most desperate determinations—her reason nearly wandered. She feared, above all, that De Morville, in spite of his repugnance for the marriage which was proposed for him, would yield to the solicitations of his dying mother. He might, perhaps, gain some time, but in a week all would be decided for Paula.
Iris, seeing the sombre pre-occupation of her mistress, guessed its cause, and said to her, after a protracted silence, pointing to a long gold pin set with turquoises, and standing in a pincushion covered with lace,—
"Godmother, do you remember my words? When you desire that the thought which you dare not avow to yourself be realised, without either you or myself taking the slightest part in its execution, give me this pin,—a few days afterwards and there will be nothing left for you to desire. Since I spoke to you, the idea has taken root and sprung in the heart in which I had sown it,—it has blossomed, and now it is ripe,—once more, that pin and you shall marry M. de Morville."
"That pin?" said Madame de Hansfeld, turning pale, and taking from the pincushion the ornament, which she contemplated for some moments with anxiety and alarm.
"That pin!" replied Iris, extending her hand to take it, her eyes shining with savage brilliancy.
Madame de Hansfeld, without raising her eyes, said in a low and agitated voice,—
"What you say. Iris, is a wicked jest, is it not? It is impossible,—how could you?"
"Give me the pin, and do not you heed the rest."
"I should be mad to believe you."
And as she spoke, Paula, resting on her elbow on the mantel-piece, still retaining the pin, had mechanically, and, as if playing with it, placed it close to the hand of Iris extended on the marble slab.
The Bohemian seized it quickly.
The princess, alarmed, snatched it from her with violence, exclaiming,—
"No, no: that would be horrible. Oh, never, never! Die first all my dearest hopes!"
Two days after the last interview between Madame de Hansfeld and De Morville at the Opera ball, Iris had again taken, as she promised, the Black Book to De Brévannes, who read therein the following lines, which, as before, he attributed to the princess:—
"I am so troubled at this meeting, that I can scarcely collect my thoughts. I am afraid to recall what I have promised to M. de Brévannes. I have given him cause to suspect, perhaps......
"What, then, can be this man's power? I went to meet him quite resolved to display the most pitiless coldness; and yet, scarcely did I see him but I forgot all—even his threats!
"What fatality has brought him here for my misfortune?
"No, no, I shall never love him!
"I am horrified at myself. What! in presence of Raphael's murderer I have not felt either hatred or fury! Oh, shame, shame upon me! he saw my weakness.
"Alas! what am I to do? When I hear his voice, when his ardent look is fixed upon me, my firmest resolutions forsake me,—I only think of listening to him, of looking at him.
"He is so handsome, with that manly and bold beauty, which the first time I saw him made upon me so deep, so lasting an impression! Every thing in him bespeaks one of those men so passionately energetic, who love as I would be loved, as I never have been loved. Oh! if my will and his were united, at what a pitch of happiness might we not arrive!
"Blessed be this book! I can say to it what I dare not reveal to any human creature,—what I dare not even utter aloud.
"He has begged to introduce his wife to me. I hate her by anticipation,—and yet it is to her that I shall be indebted one day for receiving her husband. But this obligation irritates me against her,—it is her happiness I envy. She bears the name of the man who exercises such irresistible influence over me,—a name which I cannot now hear without being troubled. Oh, that woman! I hate her, I hate her—she is too happy!
"After all, why blush at my love? It will never be guilty—for it will never be happy!
"My heart's ambition is too great. He shall never know what he might have been to me had we both been free. Oh! what a dream! what paradise!
"The passion I experience is too powerful, too vast, to descend even to the falsehoods to which we should both be reduced, if we sought the pleasures of a vulgar love. No, no, to belong to him in the open gaze of day, in the face of the world, to bear his name nobly and proudly—or bury my unhappy love in the depths of my heart. No human power can make me surrender one of these two alternatives.
"But as he and I wear the chains of marriage,—those heavy, dragging chains! but as chance, in liberating the one would not liberate the other, my life will be but one long regret, one long punishment. What I say to you is true,—I have no interest in lying to myself. I know well enough my own firmness of character to be sure of my resolution.
"And then he also has so much will, so much energy, that it is to be worthy of him to imitate his energy and will, even though they should be employed in resisting him.
"Oh he does not know what power it implies to have resisted a man like him.
"I find a singular charm in thus accounting to myself for thoughts, of which he will for ever remain in ignorance,—in being in these mute confidences as tender, as impassioned towards him, as I am cold and reserved in his presence: I am content with my last trial on this point—with what a chilling air I received him!
"But then what courage it required! But for the presence of Iris I should have been still more cold, but as she was there I felt protected against myself.
"This young girl troubles me, she is so singularly careful and attentive to me,—yet, I know not why, I feel a vague presentiment that her conduct is hypocritical. She is gloomy, distracted, preoccupied. What have I done to her? Sometimes, it is true, at moments of melancholy or irritation, I am cross to her. I must think of this and watch her.
"What have I learned? No, no, it is impossible,—hell would not have that.
"His wife, Bertha de Brévannes, unfaithful to him!
"What if the proofs which are brought to me were true?
"Oh, he is shamefully betrayed! Wicked creature! with her soft and gentle air; she does not feel, then, what it is to be so happy, so honoured, as to bear his name? He—he deceived—like the lowest of men—he jested at, mocked at, perhaps,—I cannot express what I feel at this idea, which never would have occurred to me.
"Oh! I am mad—mad; it is not love, it is idolatry!"
The supposed memoranda of Madame de Hansfeld had been perfidiously broken off at this place.
As he read the latter portion, which referred to the pretended infidelity of Bertha, De Brévannes bounded from his seat with anguish and rage.
For the very reason that the reading of the first part of the journal had plunged him into all the ravishments of pride, and that pride excited to the highest pitch, this counter-blow was the more painful, and he could hardly restrain himself when he thought that he was, perchance, playing a foolish part in the eyes of Paula. He knew women well enough to be aware, that if it be pleasant, very pleasant, to them to carry off a husband or a lover from a faithful heart, they care but very little to serve as a revenge for a man who has been himself deceived.
Iris herself was frightened at the expression of anger and hatred which contracted De Brévannes' features, as he read this passage in the Black Book, and she left Bertha's husband assured of having stricken where she wished to strike.
In fact, she quitted M. de Brévannes in a state of excitement impossible to describe.
On the one hand, he flattered himself that he was beloved by Madame de Hansfeld with intense energy,—but he had also the certainty that he should never obtain any thing from so resolute a woman, who drew from the very excess of her love the means of resistance which she calculated on using; desiring and believing most firmly that she proved her passion by the obstinate refusals in which she gloried.
On the other hand, his blood boiled with rage when he thought that Bertha deceived him,—that, perhaps, he was an object of mockery and sarcasm to society. The least circumstances of his conversation with his wife returned to his mind, and he found in them the confirmation of those suspicions which some lines of the Black Book had awakened.
He did not know what to resolve upon. The day after he was to present his wife to Madame de Hansfeld; it was, therefore, necessary to be on his guard with Bertha until after the introduction, which he looked upon as so important for the future success of his love,—but how to restrain himself until then; he—always accustomed to make his wife endure his fits of ill temper on any occasion, however trivial.
He exhausted thought in reflecting as to the person who could be the guilty participator with Madame de Brévannes. And, after mature reflection, remembering the retiring habits Bertha had of late affected, he persuaded himself that she was engaged in some low and vulgar amour.
Iris, with infernal sagacity, had skilfully made it appear that Paula dwelt greatly on the happiness and pride she would have had in bearing the name of De Brévannes; and it was that name Bertha was dishonouring.
The snare was too skilfully spread for this vain, jealous, haughty, and wickedly cruel man, to allow of his escaping it. And this was all calculated in the well-digested and infernal scheme of Iris.
In fact, after having passed through every degree of anger, and having mentally devoted himself to the most violent threats against Bertha and her unknown accomplice, De Brévannes suddenly smiled with savage joy,—he was calm, appeased, more than satisfied, at Bertha's infidelity; and he had but one fear, that of not being able to procure flagrant proofs of his own dishonour.
* * * * *
He judged it requisite to his projects to conceal from Madame de Brévannes the information he had received, in order to watch closely her slightest motions, and he was thus desirous of lulling her into the most perfect security.
Thus the next day (the day on which Bertha was to be introduced) De Brévannes entered his wife's apartment, after having first sent her a very large nosegay and a beautiful head-dress of real flowers.
But little accustomed to her husband's attentions, Bertha was doubly surprised at receiving this gift of flowers, coming as it did after the scene of the preceding night, in which M. de Brévannes had exhibited a more than ordinary brutality.
Nor was she less astonished at the air of gentleness and contrition he thought proper to assume. She was, however, totally unable to assign any other cause for it than real regret for the past, and, as such, received with all simplicity and kindness the amiable expression which, for the time being, softened the usually harsh features of M. de Brévannes.
Although she had done her utmost to avoid going to the Hôtel Lambert, in the dread of meeting M. de Hansfeld there, yet the heart of Bertha reproached her with having concealed from her husband the interviews that had already taken place between herself and Arnold at the house of her father, and each kind or conciliating word or look on the part of M. de Brévannes appeared to aggravate her guilt and exaggerate his merits.
It was, therefore, with a confused and fluttered manner she thanked him for the flowers he had sent her.
"You are too good, Charles," said she; "you are, indeed! You positively spoil me! The bouquet was magnificent, and the camelias really splendid! too much so, indeed, for me!"
"You say rightly, my love, you require no ornament to render you irresistibly charming! Still I could not deny myself the pleasure of sending you those needless, useless helps to ordinary beauty; but I am delighted the flowers pleased you, and that so small an attention on my part has been deemed worthy of notice by you. Alas! I have but too many faults to atone for!"
"Nay, Charles!"
"Stop me not—for I must speak. Was I not only yesterday cruel and unkind? did I not do all in my power to make you hate and detest me? But husbands are a sad set—there is no denying it."
"I assure you, Charles, I had entirely forgotten all that had occurred."
"Because your good and generous nature is incapable of feeling ill-will towards any one. Truly there are times when I seriously ask myself how I have been able so long to undervalue so many rare and precious qualities as are contained within your breast."
"Charles, you pain me. I beseech you——"
"No, I say again, I cannot tell where could have been my judgment, my discrimination. Yet that accounts, too, for the almost blind confidence I have ever reposed in you, always excepting those foolish, groundless fits of jealousy which have from time to time ruffled my repose; and you can scarcely believe how greatly our yesterday's conversation has increased the confidence I previously entertained."
"Charles!"
"At first, I will candidly confess, the candour with which you stated your fears did render me somewhat uneasy, but, upon subsequent reflection, I found in all you had said the most satisfactory assurances of your future truth and honour, as well as a fresh proof of the exemplary good principle which regulates your every action."
"I entreat of you," said Bertha, with a degree of confusion, which did not escape the searching eye of her husband, "I entreat of you not to allude further to so painful a subject."
"On the contrary, let it be my punishment to speak much and constantly of a scene in which I confess I acted like a fool and a brute,—like an idiot. I was offended with your candour and perfect ingenuousness: why should not modesty be as regular an accompaniment to honour as it is to talent? Suppose I had requested you to sing before a numerous audience, would you have said, willingly, for I feel assured of acquitting myself admirably? Oh, no, on the contrary, you would have expressed all manner of fears; and yet it is no flattery to say your talents are unrivalled. Now in the same spirit of modesty did you reply to my expressed wish that you should exhibit yourself more frequently, mix more in the great and the gay world, you then sensibly remarked, 'I wish to remain faithful to all the duties belonging to my station, but I dread the perils and temptations by which a young person like myself is ordinarily beset, and I had much rather fly from such dangers than attempt to combat them.'"
"Again!" said Bertha, deeply and unaffectedly touched by her husband's mild and tolerant language, "let me implore as a favour that you will revert no more to the past."
"Nay, nay," answered De Brévannes gaily, "you shall not induce me to give up my point! I am determined to prove to you that I am as indefatigable in the pursuit of good as evil, and that my frankness equals your uprightness, which is not awarding a very slender compliment to myself; and you shall to-day learn what my evil temper of yesterday made me keep concealed from you."
"What was it?"
"You know I but seldom trouble you with my affairs. This time you will, perhaps, excuse me if I go into some particulars which may prove wearisome to your patience!"
"I beseech you proceed!"
"A relation of the Princess de Hansfeld holds a high and influential post in Austria, and might serve me materially by obtaining important privileges for a company now forming in Vienna, and in which I have embarked considerable sums. Now, in obtaining an introduction to the princess, and in supplicating of you to endeavour to conciliate her favour, I confess I am influenced by motives of pure interest. Still it is a mutual interest, since it tends to the augmentation of our common wealth."
"And why did you not state this yesterday?"
"I probably should have done so had I not been carried away by displeasure at your firm refusal to be presented to Madame de Hansfeld. I plead guilty to having a very ungovernable temper, and yesterday I positively lost all command over myself. We parted mutually dissatisfied with each other, and I lost the opportunity of telling you what I wished you to know."
"If such be your reasons, Charles, rely upon my doing all in my power to render myself agreeable to the princess. Now that I know your interests are involved in the matter, I shall have an aim, a purpose to gain in visiting Madame de Hansfeld, and I shall view with far less dread the perils my too great vanity led me to fear."
"Thanks, my good girl! See what it is to have a right understanding on a subject! how every difficulty seems smoothed by an absence of all mystery and disguise. How greatly I reproach myself for the impetuosity I betrayed last night! When one is carried away by passion, it is so very unlikely we should be able to state our real reasons with calmness and accuracy. And now that we have found the sweets, as well as the advantages, of reposing unlimited confidence, allow me to open my whole heart to you."
"Oh, yes! I pray of you do so! If you only knew how much my heart feels touched and gratified by language so new and unusual on your part!"
"And I, too, am wholly at a loss to understand the novel feelings I myself entertain towards you."
"I know not what you mean, Charles!"
After a brief silence, M. de Brévannes resumed by saying,—
"Listen to me! There are two ways of regarding one's wife—either as a mistress passionately adored, or as a highly valued friend. For a long while my heart cherished you as the former of these endearing relations; faults on my part, I will not attempt to deny, have deprived me of the inestimable privilege of ranking as your lover, leaving me but the cold shadow of my former happiness under the title of your friend. To pass from the ardent lover to the sober reality of friendship is a bitter struggle, when she we love, though bound by wedded ties, is charming and captivating as a mistress."
"Let me beseech you——"
"But, great as it is, I have made the sacrifice. I have bowed to the stern commands which bid me hope no more; and it is to my true, faithful, and sincere friend I now address myself!"
So perfect was the dissimulation with which M. de Brévannes covered his guilty designs, and so natural and affecting was the tone of his voice while speaking, that a tear of regret filled the eye of Bertha, while a full confession of her own disingenuousness trembled on her lips.
"And be assured," said she at length, "that your friend will study henceforward to deserve that title, and to be worthy of——"
"Enough, enough!" said M. de Brévannes, hastily interrupting Bertha. "I know your exceeding goodness, and that your delicate mind is ever sensitively alive to the wishes and happiness of others. Permit me, however, to finish what I was about to say. As there are two ways of loving a wife, so are there two distinct modes of entertaining jealousy."
"Now, indeed, I am at a loss to comprehend you!"
"I fear, indeed, you experience some difficulty on this head, more especially after some expressions I made use of yesterday, and which you may probably have wrongly interpreted."
"What can you mean?"
"Oh, it is more than likely for you to have done so. Unfortunately our discussion of yesterday assumed so high a tone that all things wore an air of exaggeration. When I spoke of the many shades of difference which existed between jealousy, love, and self-love, I merely meant to say that the species of jealousy felt for one towards whom our sentiments are but those of friendship is widely dissimilar to that raging torrent which sweeps all before it at the bare idea of being superseded in the affections of a wife who possesses our love. In the first instance the heart alone suffers; in the second, a whirlwind of mighty passions tears our very vitals, our brain totters beneath the agonising dread of losing the beloved object, and, unfortunately, wounded pride shuts out from the jealous man the many attempts of awakened tenderness to calm and heal the smarting of his wounds. Do you understand me?"
"But——"
"I see you do not. Well, then, I will speak to you more plainly still. I only fear not being able distinctly to state my sentiments, and probably shocking you by their imperfect display."
"Speak on, and fear nothing!"
"Then listen to me. You have long ceased to excite in my breast any feelings beyond those of friendship. Still, at two-and-twenty you may well fear the temptations you mentioned yesterday, and, alas! no one is more exposed to them than yourself, for with shame and sorrow I confess that my conduct towards you, if it be not capable of authorising, is at least perfectly calculated to extenuate, your faults."
"Can you for an instant suppose——"
"Give me leave to complete what I was saying. If I have still the right of being (as I confess I am) horribly jealous as far as my pride is concerned, that is to say, of all external appearances, all outward demonstrations of regard for another, I am aware I have unfortunately lost all claim to restrain or govern the impulses of your heart. My own infidelity and unkindness have naturally chilled your affections towards myself, and I have no claim even to inquire who is the fortunate object who engrosses them. Nothing could be at once more positively unjust, as well as absurd, than for me to hope or expect that, at your young age, your heart should remain dead and insensible to love."
Bertha gazed on her husband with stupor.
"The only stipulation I consider myself entitled to make," continued he, "and that is one I should most rigidly exact, is that my dear friend will, in every outward attention to decorum, most scrupulously respect the honour of my name, as she could possibly do were we linked together in the bonds of the most tender love. In fact, I consider that your public life is my affair, inasmuch as you are known and recognised as my wife. The career of your heart is henceforward a sealed book for me, since I have forfeited all right or control over it. You appear astonished at my words, but reflect a little, recall our yesterday's conversation, and you will find that I then expressed myself in almost similar terms, differing merely in tone and manner, the matter precisely the same. But, to finish our present discourse, understand me, that from the present day you will enjoy the most perfect and uncontrolled liberty—be your own mistress in every respect—we are henceforward, if not legally, at least virtually, separated. But for the very reason that this absolute and unrestricted freedom must naturally lead you to the very extreme limit of propriety, so much the more scrupulous must you be not to transgress any outward duty; for I tell you again, in the same proportion as I shall be tolerant and indulgent where merely the heart is concerned, so will you find me rigid and mercilessly severe as regards all the acknowledged convenances of society. And now, my dear, I will leave you to meditate on what you have heard—from this day forward our relative positions are distinctly defined. It is most probable that I should have required this mutual forbearance as regards the affections of the heart long before yourself. However, this is not the time to divulge the secrets we may possibly each be fancying secure within the recesses of our own bosoms, and I shall shortly claim the indulgent hearing of my kind friend while I unfold a little tendresse of my own. By the way, talking of indulgences, that reminds me that I have to beg leave not only to absent myself, but also your pardon for leaving you quite alone. In a few days' time I shall depart on a short but most important journey."
"You going, Charles, and at the present time?"
"I shall be absent but a very short period, a fortnight at the longest, and, as I before said, upon most urgent business; but in the meanwhile I intrust you with the affair for which I am anxious to engage the interest of Madame de Hansfeld, fully persuaded it could not be in safer or surer hands. So fare ye well for the present. Mind and call up all your beauty as you mingle in the gay world, for, if I have lost the insatiate vanity of the lover, I still retain that of the husband!"
So saying M. de Brévannes touched the forehead of Bertha with his lips and went out. He had restrained himself long enough, and too long for his patience. When alone he gave full vent to the rage and fury which knew no bounds. The varied emotions so legibly depicted on the ingenuous countenance of Bertha while her husband was speaking, the sort of involuntary joy (of which she seemed almost instantly ashamed, though unable to conceal it) with which she heard the announcement of her future independence, her vague apprehensions, her hopes by turns awakened and restrained, all served to enlighten M. de Brévannes as to the state of Bertha's heart.
He could not be mistaken—she loved. He was far too experienced in such matters to entertain the least doubt on the subject.
He had, then, a rival, and his wife was deceiving him.
It was therefore with a species of satisfaction, at once savage and revengeful, he thought of the profound security and blind confidence in which he had left Madame de Brévannes.
The passion conceived by Madame de Hansfeld for M. de Morville had considerably augmented since her last interview during the Opera ball.
This love was in the breast of Paula a singular mixture of noble and exalted sentiments and gloomy, sinister ideas. She would have thought it a degradation of the man she loved had she suffered him to break his oath; while, at the same time, she resolved, if not to encourage, at least to permit, Iris to carry on any plot she thought proper against the life of her husband, in order that she might be at liberty to espouse M. de Morville without his having in any manner broken his vow.
In vain did Paula seek to remain in ignorance of Iris's machinations, the consequences of which she could but imperfectly make out. The very violence of her reluctance, her shuddering apprehensions, and anticipated remorse, all served to shew her the criminal part she was taking in the affair, which had originated solely in her wild, ungovernable passion. Yet, strange to say, had the revelations of Iris but occurred some few months sooner, when the prince was still under the influence of his passionate love for Paula—a love so strong, and yet so clear-sighted, that it remained unshaken by the apparent evidences of her guilt and foresaw her innocence:—if, therefore, we repeat, the confessions of Iris had been made when the only obstacle that prevented Paula from returning the prince's affection was the remembrance of Raphael—of Raphael the hitherto lamented and adored—what would have been the results?
Arnold would have learned the innocence of Paula, while she would have become acquainted with the infamous deceit practised by Raphael.
The chances were all in favour of Madame de Hansfeld's returning the love of the prince, who had proved his affection to be so genuine and ardent; by unremitted assiduities he would have induced Paula to pardon him for entertaining suspicions so injurious to her, and which had caused him so much torture, both bodily and mentally, and Paula must ere long have been constrained to admit, that only a passion as blind, as all-absorbing as that of her husband could have enabled him to continue that almost adoring love, in spite even of the horrible appearances which proclaimed her a would be murderess.
Unfortunately it was not so; and the tardy and constrained confessions of Iris were not made until M. de Hansfeld had transferred his affections to Bertha, and Madame de Hansfeld had given her heart to M. de Morville. This fatal position of affairs rendered the situation of all concerned equally unendurable.
Madame de Hansfeld saw herself doomed to drag on a wearisome existence beside a man who cared not for her, he even loved another, and his heart, shut for ever against any warmer feeling for Paula than pity and regret, could but coldly and feebly seek, by surrounding her with every worldly enjoyment, to atone for those suspicions to which she had been sacrificed. And while separated from the object of her new affection by an insuperable obstacle, she saw, through the enchanting rays of love, one young, handsome, and devoted, so passionately devoted as to have been willing to sacrifice at her feet the two leading idols of his life—his mother and his promise—and, amid all this, Paula had not even the gratification of thinking that by devoting herself to her duties she in the smallest degree contributed to the happiness of M. de Hansfeld, who, on his side, finding in Bertha the most seductive union of personal graces and perfect sweetness of character, gave himself up without a struggle to the delights of a passion as pure and fervid as that which now filled his breast, finding full excuse in the frigid indifference Paula had ever evinced towards him.
Such was the situation of M. and Madame de Hansfeld at the moment when, by way of conciliating M. de Brévannes, who had it in his power to calumniate her so fearfully, Paula was about to receive both himself and his wife at the Hôtel Lambert.
The infatuation of Paula had now reached a point that rendered it quite impossible for her much longer to endure her present position. She had named eight days to M. de Morville as the period for acquainting him with her final resolution, because she trusted that ere then her future destiny would be decided.
Either she would courageously accept the propositions of Iris, or her own hand should take away her life if the project of the mulatto appeared to her to require a too direct or too personal a co-operation.
Nothing is more strange, yet at the same time real, than the tiny particles fraught with deadly sin, which, floating over the subdued conscience, form at last a mass of guilt, startling and fearful to contemplate.
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
The result of Madame de Hansfeld's deep reverie was to summon Iris; the ready messenger of evil came quickly at her call.
"You sent for me, godmother?" said Iris.
"Yes; shut the door, see that no one can overhear us."
Iris went out for a moment, and then returned.
"No one, godmother."
Paula's heart beat in a strange manner, and she lowered her eyes before the searching glance of the gipsy girl; at length she said, making an effort over herself,—
"Listen to me attentively. The conversation I am about to have with you will be the last we shall ever have on the subject of—you know what. You said to me some days since,—'a word—a sign from you—this pin'—I suppose—and——"
Paula could not finish the sentence. Iris replied,—
"And you are free!"
"You told me so."
"I repeat it."
"You say you are devoted to me."
"In the past—at the present—for the future!"
"Give me a proof."
"Speak, godmother."
"Tell me by what means you propose to make me free?"
Madame de Hansfeld's voice faltered, then she added, instantly and quickly,—
"Without either you or me being inculpated in the—the—What is to be done?"
These words seemed to burn Paula's lips as she uttered them.
"Why that question?"
"I have no faith in the possibility of what you have promised me and do not look to profit by it, but I wish to know by what means you propose—in fact, you understand me——"
"What purpose will it answer to tell you?"
"If they appear to me less horrid than I conjecture, perhaps—I do not know——"
Then the princess, frightened at what she had said, put her hand over her eyes and exclaimed,—
"No, no, leave me—go—and never more return. I will never see you again! Begone!"
"Forgive me, godmother!"
"No, begone, I tell you!"
"Well, then, I will tell you by what means."
And Iris lowered her voice, awaiting with anxiety another order to go.
Paula remained silent.
Iris continued,—
"Yes, I will, as you desire it, inform you of the means by which you may be free. But mind, beware!"
Madame de Hansfeld looked steadfastly at Iris.
"I am to mind?—beware?"
"Yes! for you may bitterly repent having interrogated me on this subject. You have scruples now, and they will become greater when you are informed of my intentions. But for the promise you extracted from me not to do anything without your knowledge I might have saved you a world of anguish; sometimes even I ask myself if I am not mad to obey you in this particular. I have no wish or aim but your welfare. The odium of the perjury will only fall back on me; no matter—you will be happy!"
"Have you dared to disobey me in what you have promised?"
"Unfortunately, I have not dared; your word is law to me—at least allow this submission to your will to give you a profound, blind faith in my word."
"Your word?" said Paula, scornfully.
"Yes, and I swear to you that events have so marched without your mixing with them in any way, as you know better than any one else; that in less than a week you may, perhaps, be free, and not only will no suspicion light on you, but the interest, the sympathies of the world will be with you."
Madame de Hansfeld looked at Iris with surprise, almost with consternation.
"But this being the case, why do you not inform me fully as to these events since you say I am so entirely strange to them?"
"Because of your scruples, godmother."
"My scruples? Why should I have any? Am I not innocent of what is passing?"
"Your scruples will arise, although very absurd: they will arise, I tell you, and you will listen to them."
"In what way?"
"Suppose you were informed of every particular, by some unheard—of prodigy, of the future destiny of a person utterly indifferent to you, whom you do not even know. This prescience might acquaint you that this person would die in eight days,—die by some fatal occurrence, although you would not, in the slightest way, be mixed up in the causes of this death, or in any way profit by it, or without your being able to change the course of events which lead to it; yet would you not feel a kind of agony at this disclosure; would you not consider yourself as in some way mixed up with this result when you saw the person ignorant of the terrible fate in store whilst you were cognisant of it?"
"I should not think myself an accomplice in this death, but I should feel much horror at seeing that person advance, confident and tranquil, towards an abyss of which he knew nothing."
"Well! would not your horror become remorse if this person were your own husband, and if his destiny fulfilled your every wish, realised your every hope?"
"What do you mean?"
"How innocent soever you might be of such a catastrophe, should you not consider yourself as almost criminal,—only because you were informed beforehand? Again, do not ask me any more; do not compel me to speak! You will repent it when too late. Rely on me!"
"Rely on you? No, no, I know what you are capable of. I was entirely innocent of your horrible attempts on M. de Hansfeld, yet appearances condemned me, yet I tell you I wish to know all."
"Have you resolved on renouncing M. de Morville?"
"What has that to do with it?"
"I must know this—for in this case only ought I to speak to you. It would be cruel to allow two creatures of God to perish for nothing."
"Then the life of two persons would be endangered?" cried Madame de Hansfeld.
"Wretched me! wretched you!" said Iris, much distressed, or appearing to be so, at her indiscretion. "You make me say what I did not wish to utter. Well, yet at this moment, the lives of two persons are in jeopardy."
"Thank God! you have been compelled to speak out: I will never buy the happiness of my whole life at such a price. I renounce M. de Morville! And may I be accursed if I ever——"
"Stay, godmother! I know the strength of your scruples, but I know, too, the strength of your love; although the lives of two persons may be in jeopardy, you may be accursed."
"Wretched girl!"
"Stay, godmother! let us leave events to follow their course—what will be will be!"
"Now you have filled my soul with affright, for I know of what you are capable: you seek to be silent. No—no—speak—I desire—I command you!"
"Well, then, since you force me to speak out, you shall know all. The prince loves Bertha, and is beloved by her; you know the fierce jealousy of M. de Brévannes. He already hates the prince because he is your husband! Now he knows that he is loved by his wife, he hates him to very death. Suppose Bertha were so imprudent as to grant M. de Hansfeld an interview—innocent or guilty—voluntarily or by chance—no matter—M. de Brévannes is informed of it; surprises them by a stratagem; appearances are against them—what would he do, think you? What would he do?"
"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!"
"What would he do? Why, he believes himself beloved by you; believes by making you free—you and himself by the double murder be might commit with impunity, he would obtain your hand——"
"This is an infernal machination!"
"Would you be free? Yes or no! And how far would you have participated in all this? Your husband deceives you for the wife of a man whom you hate. You cannot help this. This man kills them both! Are you his accomplice? Who or what prevents you from marrying M. de Morville? In what way even could he ever suspect you of having been mixed up in this machination? On the contrary, as I tell you, the interest and sympathies of the world would be with you."
"You are mad; M. de Brévannes would hardly go to such an extremity if he believed himself beloved by me; and he would not surely dare to offer me his hand,—stained, imbrued with my husband's blood?"
"Such is the man's proud jealousy, so ungoverned, so wild, that under no circumstances would he hesitate to kill his wife and her seducer; but as he loves you with all the more ardour as he believes himself madly adored by you, he does not doubt that you would brave all appearances, even to bestowing your hand upon him, and at this moment he is spreading the snare in which your husband and his wife must inevitably perish."
"You have lost your senses. This man, vain as he is, can never believe himself beloved by me. I have scarcely said a few civil words to him in order to avert the evil he might do me."
"But I have spoken for you!"
"You have spoken for me?"
Iris related to Madame de Hansfeld the history of the Black Book.
Paula was overwhelmed, stupefied at this revelation. She could hardly credit such daring with such diabolical plotting.
"It is most horrible!" she exclaimed.
Iris looked at her mistress with a strange smile, and replied,—
"You had until now reproached me with acting without your consent. I was wrong. I wished to conceal from you the thread of the events which were in preparation, and you have forced me to disclose all to you. You will now repent it that you know all. Whilst you were in ignorance of this plot, its success was a stroke of chance for you by which you would have profited without compunction. Now you know all, if you do not reveal it, you become an accomplice."
"Then why did you obey me?" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, mechanically. "Why did you tell me all these horrors?"
This was an odious remark, and betrayed the secret and homicidal thought of Paula.
"I obeyed you," replied Iris, bitterly, "because I expected with impatience your order to do so, and if you had not given me that order I should have told you all without your commands."
"What says she?"
"I do not abuse myself; whilst I am working your happiness, I am hastening my own misery. When you marry M. de Morville, I should become to you merely an object of contempt and horror. It is true I might have acted in silence without informing you, and leaving you innocently to reap the fruit of this deadly plot. But I will confess—I had not the courage. I am willing to die for you, but it must be on condition that you say at least, 'Die for me!'"
"Strange and abominable creature!"
"Your happiness will be my misery, I know; but at least, in the bosom of your happy love you may perchance have a recollection for me."
"If you sacrifice yourself thus for my interest, you should have waited until what you call my happiness was assured, in order to have made this disclosure to me.
"No, godmother: it is possible that you have more virtue than love, and thus your happiness would have been for ever poisoned. Now, on the contrary, when you know the price of your union with M. de Morville, you can choose, you have in your hands the future of your love for M. de Morville, the fate of Bertha de Brévannes, and of your husband. One word from you to M. de Brévannes as to the Black Book, and he will know that you do not love him, that he is the dupe of a trick of which I am the contriver, and which, instead of bringing his wife to the Hôtel Lambert, in order to make her the more safely fall into the snare that is spreading for her, as well as M. de Hansfeld, he ought to snatch Bertha away from a love as yet innocent; as, in that case, the death of his wife and the prince would be useless to him. This is your duty, godmother. Do it! Unquestionably M. de Brévannes, enraged, will circulate the most atrocious calumnies respecting you. What then? They are but calumnies—it is true M. de Morville may be afflicted at them, believe in them, and smile scornfully when he reflects on the ideal and romantic love he had for you; what then? During the long life in store for you with the prince whom you do not love, and who loves not you, you may repeat boastingly every day,—I have done my duty."
"Accursed be thou—demon sent from hell!" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, wildly, "leave me, leave me! Why do you come to enclose me in a frightful circle whence I cannot escape without causing the death of two unfortunates or by casting myself into an abyss of endless despair?"
"You deepen too much the shadows of the picture, godmother; you may step out of the fearful circle of which you speak, and go, with proud and elevated forehead, to the altar with M. de Morville, and pass with him afterwards a joyous and honoured existence."
"Oh! silence! silence!"
"And that, too, without making him perjure his oath, without making him culpable with his mother, for she would invoke blessings on the union which you might form with joy, without shame, without crime, by resting quiet and awaiting events, provoking nothing, doing no' thing, knowing nothing!"
"Oh, silence! silence!"
"Not even encouraging by a hypocritical word the ferocious and interested vengeance of M. de Brévannes, being always calmly polite to him. All is provided, for the Black Book will speak for you; the Black Book will say that in order to render your marriage possible hereafter, M. de Brévannes must not be suspected of loving you, and having calculated upon the vengeance which he will have drawn down on the prince and Bertha. It will also spare you attentions which, if noticed in the world, might arouse M. de Morville's jealousy—I tell you all has been provided for, carefully provided for, godmother."
"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! deliver me from this infamous creature!"
"So that after the tragic event," continued Iris, imperturbably, "M. de Brévannes could have no reproach to cast upon you, and you would close your door upon him without a word of explanation. Brévannes will be furious, but what can he say or do? The Black Book is in my hand-writing; he has not even a note of yours; besides, if he dared to complain, he must first confess the shameless calculations with which he almost provoked his own dishonour, in order to be justified in killing his wife and your husband. But he dares not, for he would inspire as much contempt as horror. Don't you think so, godmother?"
"Leave me, I tell you; go—go—you horrify me!"
"Mon Dieu! What am I doing beyond exposing to you the good and the ill? Now you are free—choose!"
"Monster! you know very well the drift of such language, and the criminal hopes which you evoke before my thoughts!"
"Am I a monster to bid you choose between good and ill? Is virtue then so terrible a thing to practise that it costs as many tears as crime?"
"Heaven have mercy upon me!"
"One last word, godmother. I may have played on certain passions in order to prepare certain events, but it no longer depends on me to regulate their progress, for they seem to hasten, and even to-morrow it may be too late. If you are decided on the good, that is to say, on preventing your husband from incurring the danger that impends over him and M. de Brévannes from the mystification of which he is the dupe, act without delay—this day—this hour—this instant. One hour's delay may destroy all—that is to say, may gain every thing for the interests of your love."
At this moment a valet-de-chambre entered after having knocked at the door.
"What is it?" inquired Paula.
"Not knowing if your ladyship was at home, I have begged M. and Madame de Brévannes to wait."
"They are here!" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, shuddering.
"Yes, princess."
"Madame has forgotten that she appointed this morning to receive the visit of M. and Madame de Brévannes," remarked Iris.
"Yes, true," said Paula, with a faltering voice, "I—yes—yes—to be sure."
"The princess will see them," said Iris, hastily; "request M. and Madame Brévannes to be good enough to wait for a few minutes."
The valet-de-chambre quitted the apartment.
"Never, never shall I have the courage to receive M. and Madame de Brévannes," exclaimed the princess with despair, "for——"
The voice of the prince interrupted Paula.
Her salon was separated from the other apartments by a long gallery similar to that which De Hansfeld occupied on the upper story.
Velvet hangings supplied the place of doors, and Paula heard her husband's voice as he inquired of the valet-de-chambre, who was waiting at the extremity of the gallery, if the princess were there.
"It is the prince!" exclaimed Iris.
"He is going to meet this young lady," said Paula: "both of them ignorant that M. de Brévannes is cognisant of their love, and with a horrid calculation will feign to be ignorant of that love. Oh! it is horrible to leave them in this blind, this fatal confidence!"
Iris said quickly,—
"Will you spare these two unfortunates, and renounce M. de Morville? Be it so, by and by, at the moment when M. de Brévannes leaves the hotel, I will find some means of speaking to him, and in two words I will disclose to him the trickery of the Black Book."
Paula started.
"Is not that what you wish, godmother?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Still, should you desire by any chance to change this wish; if you will profit by the events which this meeting of the prince and Bertha at your house must still further precipitate, unless you oppose it, when you see me rising to go out and await M. de Brévannes, give me this pin, telling me to put it up—I shall understand that M. de Brévannes is to remain in his error."
"But——"
"Here is the prince. Give me this pin presently, and within a week you are free: otherwise, renounce M. de Morville for ever."
M. de Hansfeld entered his wife's apartment at this moment.
Iris was in the habit of remaining with her mistress, even when she received visits. Her presence at the following scene appeared therefore perfectly natural to the prince.