"Alas!" said Bertha, in low and tearful accents to the prince, "you little know the pain you have occasioned both my father and myself by your disingenuous conduct; for my father had so perfect a confidence in your honour and truth!"
"I am aware I merit all your reproaches, but remember I come voluntarily to encounter them."
"Who then are you, sir?" inquired old Pierre.
"The Prince de Hansfeld," replied Arnold, dejectedly, and looking downwards as if ashamed so to style himself.
"And you inhabit the Hôtel Lambert close by?"
"The Prince de Hansfeld!" repeated Bertha, with an astonishment mingled with compassionate interest and terror.
"In relating to you, under a feigned name, the fatal consequences of my marriage, my recital was strictly true in all save the name. Convinced at that period of the culpability of my wife—more especially after the last attempt I told you of—I had determined to make her quit France for ever. I should this very day have spread the report that I was about to depart with her, and entirely giving up the Hôtel Lambert. Carefully preserving the disguise beneath which I had formed friendships so dear and precious, I desired to live obscurely, or rather happily, in some retreat adjoining whatever retirement you should select. My ambition aimed at nothing beyond the enjoyment of your society, and the drawing still closer the bonds of our union; but these sweet dreams I am compelled to resign. When I left you yesterday I entered the apartments of Madame de Hansfeld, and provoked to find she had not commenced the preparations for her journey, exasperated equally by the positive refusal she gave to quitting Paris, I at length found courage to utter the fearful charge my tongue had hitherto refused to utter."
"And then you found she was not guilty," exclaimed Bertha. "Ah, my own heart told me such crimes were utterly impossible!"
"It was indeed so," replied M. de Hansfeld. "My wife justified herself with dignified frankness; the reasons by which she sought to vindicate herself appeared to me abundantly convincing; and an old servant, in whom I place the utmost confidence, confirmed my impression of its being utterly impossible for Madame de Hansfeld to have committed any of the three attempts upon my life. I can scarcely describe to you the contrary feelings by which I was agitated upon making this discovery; sometimes I applauded myself for having (in spite of the apparently most positive proofs of guilt) listened to the secret voice that whispered she was innocent; then I keenly reproached myself for the accusations and inconsistencies which must have tortured and perplexed my unfortunate wife, changing thereby the slender love she had ever borne me to aversion, if not to downright hatred. I reflected upon the misery my hateful suspicions must have caused her, and I felt that I had much to expiate, much for which to endeavour to obtain pardon. Still my self-upbraiding feelings failed to rekindle my affection for my wife. No! that passion was for ever extinguished amid the whirlwind of continual doubts and apprehensions in which I had lived; but for the very reason that I loved her no longer, I felt myself the more called upon to lavish on her my utmost care and attention. And now we come to the reason of my being here to reveal to you a circumstance of which I might, had I so wished, have kept you ever ignorant. But I considered it as base and dishonourable to create for myself, out of events which I now know so utterly false, an interest which might have served to cement still closer the bonds of affection which united us. Many a time have I been on the point of revealing to you my real name and station, but the fear of exciting your anger by this tardy confession has always restrained me. You now know all. Again I repeat I seek not to extenuate my fault or deny its turpitude; but take into consideration how much I had to endure, and how heavenly and soothing to my wounded heart was the gentle consolation I found here; you will then, perhaps, feel inclined to pardon me for having trembled at the bare apprehension of losing such happiness."
Pierre Raimond remained mute and pensive while M. de Hansfeld was thus speaking; by degrees the expression of bitter wrath faded from his harsh features, and just before Arnold had quite ceased, the old engraver looked earnestly towards his daughter, accompanying his regard with a movement of the head indicative of his approbation. Bertha, with downcast eyes, sat plunged in the deepest melancholy; she knew her father too well to expect that, after the prince's confession, he would admit him again to his house; and thus she saw torn from her the only charm which had enabled her to support her sufferings; the idea was too painful for her gentle nature to struggle against, and she resigned herself to utter hopelessness and despair. After a few instants' silence, Pierre Raimond extended his hand to M. de Hansfeld, saying,—