Pierre Raimond tenderly pressed the hand of his child within his own, and then said, in a tone of bitterness,—
"What fresh sorrows have you to relate, my poor girl?"
"He loves me no longer," said poor Bertha, weeping bitterly; "he hates me, and finds me a burden to him!"
"Oh, my predictions!" cried the old man, mournfully.
"Father, have pity on me!"
"Alas! my child, I meant it not reproachfully; it was but an involuntary cry of bitter triumph at finding how truly I foretold all this; my love for you did not mislead me as to the consequences of your marriage; but what fresh grievance have you met with?"
"You are aware, that after the painful scene which took place here the very day after our arrival in Paris, Charles's temper became daily more soured, especially after the evening we went to the theatre together. Up to that period he had observed some restraint, he had even expressed regret at having acted so harshly towards you; but from the date of that unfortunate visit to the play, I say unfortunate, because the very next day fresh miseries broke out for me."
"And yet you concealed them from me; wherefore did you not tell me when you came to visit me on Sunday?"
"I feared so much to grieve you, but now my strength is exhausted, I can bear no more. Oh, if you only knew,—if you but knew!"
"Take courage, my poor girl! take courage, explain yourself without fear; let your father know all."