Bertha, who from time to time looked at Arnold, was alarmed at his increasing paleness, and exclaimed, "Monsieur Arnold, what ails you? Oh! how pale you are!"
"Your hand is icy cold, my friend," said Pierre Raimond, who was sitting beside M. de Hansfeld.
"It is nothing—nothing!" he replied; "but I am so ridiculously weak. There are certain airs which are really dates to me, and many of the melodies of Fidelio are closely connected with past sorrows."
"Yet I have played this piece before to you," said Bertha, leaving the piano, and seating herself beside her father.
"You have, indeed, and I had the greatest pleasure in listening to your brilliant execution. But to-day—I know not how it is—oh, forgive me, forgive me, that I cannot subdue my emotion!" and De Hansfeld hid his face in his hands.
Bertha and the old man looked sorrowfully at each other, participating in the grief of their friend, although they did not comprehend it.
After some moments' silence Arnold raised his head. It is impossible to depict the bitter sadness of his pale and mild countenance. A tear came into Bertha's eye, and with a charming ingenuousness she took her father's hand to wipe it.
"You suffer," said the old man to Arnold. "Why is not our friendship of an older date, for then you might alleviate your troubles by revealing them?"
"I have often thought of this, but shame has prevented me," said Arnold, in a dejected tone.
"Shame!" exclaimed Raimond with surprise.