THE FATHER-IN-LAW AND SON-IN-LAW
The unexpected appearance of M. de Brévannes was followed by an
unbroken silence of several instants, neither of the three actors in the
scene uttering a single word.
Poor Bertha's heart sunk within her, as at the first glance she read the
hard-hearted mockery impressed on the features of her husband.
The stern countenance of Pierre Raimond, which, until then, had relaxed
into an expression of gentleness and kindness, suddenly assumed a look
of proud energy. Drawing up his tall figure, and placing his daughter
behind him, as if for protection, he advanced a few steps towards M. de
Brévannes, saying briefly, "What is your pleasure here, sir?"
"My pleasure is to know whether or not Madame de Brévannes has told me
the truth in saying she was coming to pass her morning with you; and,
having my own reasons for doubting the veracity of her statement, I have
thought fit to come hither to substantiate the fact."
"Charles!" murmured Bertha, in a tone of gentle reproach.
"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."
"My child! I can make allowances for your weakness, which renders it the
more imperative in me to evince a necessary degree of severity."
"Severity!" cried M. de Brévannes, with a burst of sardonic
laughter--"severity! Upon my word I like the word vastly. It seems then
that I am here to be lectured by you into a right understanding of my
duties. May I ask if you are aware to whom you are speaking?"
"Too, too well!--to the destroyer of my good, my innocent child."
"You use strong language, my good sir; your revolutionary reminiscences
disturb your brain."
"Bertha!" said the engraver, with stern _hauteur_--"take this man from
my sight!"
"Come--come, Charles, I pray--I beseech you! adieu, dearest father, till
Thursday next,--pardon me for quitting you so abruptly now--possibly I
may come and see you again to-morrow," added poor Bertha, anxious at all
risks to terminate so painful a discussion as the present.
"Since, sir, you have taken upon you to dispense advice," interrupted M.
de Brévannes, "perhaps you might judiciously recommend your daughter
not to adopt the unwise plan of treating her husband with coldness and
contempt, after having justly awakened his jealousy."
"Bertha!" said old Raimond, "what am I to understand by these words?"
"Ah, Charles, is it well of you to recall the scene of----"
"Be assured, madam, whomever else you may impose on, I am not the dupe
of your affected delicacy--your over-strained scruples--you are carrying
on some base, some disgraceful intrigue, but rely upon it, I will detect
it."
"For mercy's sake, Charles, talk not thus in my father's presence!
Adieu, dear father, adieu."
After a momentary silence, Pierre Raimond approached his daughter, and,
gazing steadfastly on her, said, in a deep solemn voice,--
"Bertha, do you merit this charge?"
"No, father," answered Bertha, with all the dignified simplicity of
truth.
"I believe you, my child. And now, sir, listen to me, for four years
have I been deceived by the belief that my daughter was happy. I now
know the truth, Bertha has no other support than myself, a poor, old and
infirm man; but still there is strength enough left me to bid you
beware."
"Oh, then to advice and lectures succeed threats and menaces? What next,
sir?"
"At least, henceforward, we plainly understand our relative situations;
and, first, from this hour I reject the pecuniary aid I accepted at your
hands, solely at the solicitations of my daughter."
"You find it more convenient to be ungrateful?"
"Ungrateful! for having sacrificed my own notions to spare your pride?"
"Father, I conjure you----"
"Thus, then, sir," continued Pierre Raimond, "we meet upon equal
grounds, as man and man; as such you shall account to me for the misery
heaped on my gentle my unoffending child; I give you a fortnight to
repair the wrongs you have done her."
"Really, a fortnight; can you not make it more?"
"And if, at the end of that period, you do not conduct yourself as
honour and justice require, towards Bertha----"
"Well, sir, and what then?"
"You shall see."
"Come, madam," said M. de Brévannes, taking his wife by the arm.
"Farewell, dearest father; I pray you calm yourself; I will soon come
again."
"That is, if I think proper to permit you," said M. de Brévannes, with
bitter irony.
"Make yourself easy, my child; your father will watch over and protect
you," cried Pierre Raimond, weeping bitterly. Bertha followed her
husband out, and the old man was left alone.