"I desire, sir, that you will not presume to accuse a child of mine of falsehood," retorted old Raimond.
"Father!" cried Bertha.
"I do not consider myself responsible to you, M. Raimond, or any other person, for my actions. And, if I suspect my wife of uttering that which is not true, it is because——"
"If she has spoken untruly," cried Pierre Raimond, fiercely interrupting his son-in-law, "it has been to me, not you."
"In what manner?" inquired the latter, regarding Bertha with extreme astonishment.
"Charles, I beseech you!—and you too, dear father!"
"She spoke falsely but now," exclaimed the old man, in a loud, stern voice, "when she assured me she was happy."
"Ah, now I understand," replied M. de Brévannes, coldly: "Madame de Brévannes came hither amid hypocritical tears and sighs to dwell upon her domestic felicity,—a clever idea! I give her much credit for it."
"M. de Brévannes," cried Pierre Raimond, "four years ago, when my daughter was lying at the point of death in this very chamber, I told you I would rather lose her then than see her perish one day through the wretchedness you would occasion her. I spoke truly. You will be her death!"
"Father!" said Bertha, "I must not allow you to remain under so fatal an error; and, at whatever sacrifice, I will speak the truth, nor warrant by my silence those reproaches I pledge myself are undeserved by my husband. 'Tis true I concealed from you some of those trifling disagreements from which the happiest unions are not exempt; but you were so delighted to learn, that in all essential points I was perfectly, unqualifiedly happy, that I was unwilling to dispel the illusion which could do no person any harm, but which I trusted would be the means of still more attaching you to him. You judge too severely."