Bertha and her father looked on in silence, not venturing to ask Arnold to continue a recital evidently so painful to him; but, after a pause, he thus proceeded:—
"Why should I conceal her crimes? My indulgence has been a culpable weakness, and I ought to pay the penalty. We were passing the summer at Trieste; for several days Paula had been in a dark, irritable humour, and I scarcely saw her. When she was in these fits of dark sorrow, she could not bear any one near her but a young gipsy girl, whom she had adopted out of charity. This poor child was, out of gratitude, tenderly devoted to my wife.
"In order to understand what follows," said the prince, "I must enter into some few minute particulars. At the end of the garden of our house at Trieste was a pavilion where we used to take tea nearly every evening. One night Paula had, after much entreaty, promised to come and pass an hour there with me, I was in hopes that I might thus distract her from her mournful thoughts.
"I shall never forget the sad and despairing expression of her countenance during this evening; she received almost with anger and disdain some words of tenderness which I addressed to her.
"Painfully wounded at her repulsive conduct I quitted the pavilion.
"After a few turns in the garden I became more composed; remembering that Paula had forewarned me that she was still sometimes under the influence of painful recollections, I returned to the pavilion. She had left it. They had brought in the tea during my absence, and I found the cup of sugared milk, which I took every evening, standing prepared for me. I felt grateful to Paula for the attention, by which, however, I did not profit. I had a spaniel to which I was greatly attached, and mechanically I presented to him the cup which Paula had prepared for me. He drank eagerly, and almost instantly the unfortunate animal fell on the ground, trembled in every limb, and died after a few moments' agony."
"Oh, I understand—how horrible!" exclaimed Pierre Raimond.
Bertha looked at her father with surprise. "What do you mean, my dear father?" she said. Then, as if suddenly enlightened by a moment's reflection, she added, horror-struck, "No, no, it is impossible, Monsieur Arnold—impossible! a woman is incapable of a crime so frightful!"
"You think so?" replied Arnold, with bitterness. "After some minutes' reflection I said as you do, 'It is impossible!' I have attributed to chance this fearful fact, and even reproached myself cruelly for having suspected Paula for a moment."
"And when you saw your wife again," said Pierre Raimond, "how did she receive you?"