The abrupt entrance of Bertha, and the precipitation with which she threw herself into her father's arms as he turned towards her, had so entirely concealed M. de Hansfeld from her, that she was not aware of there being a third person in the apartment.
"He has driven me from him,—sent me from his roof," murmured Bertha, in a voice half-stifled with sobs, as she still kept her arms tightly twined round the neck of her father.
"My child," said the old man, in a low voice, "we are not alone."
A feeling of inexpressible joy shot through the frame of M. de Hansfeld at the sight of Bertha, whom he easily recognised as the young and lovely female who had made so vivid an impression on him at the theatre—an impression which had since assumed the form of an ideal, vague, and romantic passion.
It will be recollected, that the box in which the prince sat on the night in question was so dark, that, spite of Bertha's curiosity, she had not been able to obtain a view of him.
As Pierre Raimond pronounced the words, "We are not alone," his daughter, sinking with confusion, was hastening to the door, but the old engraver caught her by the hand, and, pointing to M. de Hansfeld, said,—
"My child, behold and bless the preserver of your parent!"
"What mean you, dearest father?"
"A little while ago, I lost myself in the fog, and, mistaking my road, fell into the river."
"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Bertha, again throwing herself into her father's arms, and pressing him passionately to her heart, then gazed in his face with mute anxiety.