"No!—no!"
"Do you forget your promise to shew me your pavilion—your favourite retreat? Oh! I will not let slip this excellent opportunity of making you fulfil your promise. See, the rain falls heavier!—come, I pray of you! But what ails you?—you scarcely speak to me!—you tremble—it is with cold, no doubt! How could you be so imprudent?"
"I cannot tell you what I feel, but it is a vague, involuntary terror. I beseech you let us return to the château, in spite of the rain."
"This is childish folly to which I cannot consent. You are unwell, and really must not expose yourself further. The rain is as cold as ice—the châlet is but a few steps from us."
"Well, then, promise me to depart to-morrow."
"What! again?"
"Yes—do not ask me wherefore. I am alarmed for you—for myself, and I shall not be at ease until you are far from here. I cannot explain my fears even to myself, but they try me bitterly."
"Really, admitting that your husband were jealous, what have you to fear?—what wrong are we doing? Besides, he is most attentive to you, and suspects nothing."
"It is those attentions, so new to me, and his hypocritical mildness, which alarms me. He, always so coarse, so rude; and one day——" Bertha started, and exclaimed, whilst she placed her trembling hand on Arnold's arm, "Again! I am certain some one is moving in the clump!—they are following us."
