THE CHÂLET
Behtha, in order to do honour to her guests, had arranged this small
pavilion in the same way as when she inhabited it.
On the walls were a few engravings from the _burin_ of her father, some
water-colour sketches by herself, her books, and her piano. A good fire
was blazing in the hearth, and its bright flames contrasted with the
increasing obscurity. A square window, like that in Swiss cottages, with
cross lead-work and small greenish glass, panes of glass about as big as
a man's hand, through which was visible the path which led from the
park-gate to the châlet. The door was left half open; Bertha, standing
near the mantel-piece, leaned her head on her hand, unable to subdue the
emotion that affected her; Arnold, as joyous as a child, or rather a
lover, was examining with a kind of tender curiosity all the little
ornaments, &c., with which Bertha was usually surrounded.
"What happiness for me," he said, "to be able to carry with me the
remembrance of the spot you inhabit! This picture will be for ever
present to my imagination. Here is your piano, the friend of long hours
of reverie and sadness; those fine engravings, your father's
productions, on which you have so often fixed your softened eyes, by
engaging yourself in thought so near to him in his modest retreat."
"Yes, no doubt," said Bertha, abstractedly; "but what ails me? I know
not wherefore, but my ideas run in a sinister circle. Do you know of
what I was just thinking? Of those attempts at murder which you have so
miraculously escaped. Has any thing fresh occurred? Have you been able
to trace those criminal attempts?"
M. de Hansfeld held at this moment a volume of Victor Hugo's "Ballads"
in his hand, and was curiously scrutinising the book at a page marked by
Bertha.
He turned partly round without closing the book, and said to the young
lady, with a smile of singular calmness,--
"I believe I have discovered this murderer;" then he added, "What
pleasure to read the lines which have attracted my eyes, my sister!"
"You have discovered then?" cried Bertha.
"I think so; you have passed yesterday and to-day with the homicidal
individual." Then again interrupting himself, "How delighted I am to see
that you share my admiration for that charming ballad the
_Grand-Mère_--one of the most touching inspirations of the illustrious
poet! You have amongst others marked those verses of such enchanting
simplicity, which I love as you love them."
Bertha believed she was in a dream when she saw the prince's _sang
froid_.
"What do you mean?" she inquired,--"I have passed yesterday and to-day
with the----"
"The murderess--yes. But listen how delicious those verses are--poor,
dear, little children!"
"'Tu nous trouveras morts près de la lampe éteinte;
Alors que diras tu? Quand tu t'éveilleras,
Tes enfants à leur tour seront sourds à ta plainte,
Pour nous rendre la vie----'"
"_Grand Dieu!_" exclaimed Bertha, interrupting Arnold, "what, then, it
is your wife who is guilty of those attempts at murder? Yet you told
me----"
"It is not my wife," replied the prince, replacing the book on the
shelf; "but, unless I am deceived, it is her infernal attendant, the
young girl with the copper skin."
"Iris?"
"Iris, I am all but certain."
"And your wife?"
"Was ignorant of all, I am most anxious to believe."
"And you keep this monster near you--in your house! Suppose she were to
renew her attempts?"
"Well!" said Arnold, with a smile, at the same time so melancholy, so
calm, so sweet, that the tears started to Bertha's eyes.
"What mean you by 'well?'" she exclaimed; "and if--but the idea is too
horrible!"
"If she should recommence her experiments, my dear sister, and she
succeeds, I shall be grateful to her."
"What do you mean?"
"To be frank, what is my life henceforth? During these few days passed
near to you, the delight of the present will prevent me from thinking of
the future; but when these are passed--one of two things--either we
shall be happy, and, in spite of your indifference for your husband, my
happiness will cost you many tears, much remorse, noble and true as you
are; and thus my love will cause you as much chagrin as the cruelties of
your husband have excited. If, on the contrary, circumstances compel us
to separate, what remains? Forgetfulness? In spite of oaths always to
remember each other, alas! there is something more horrible than the
death of those we love, that is, the forgetfulness of their death! Thus
you see, what a future! With you there could never have been but one way
possible for your happiness and mine--that was to marry. But that is a
dream! Well, then, would it not be better that this gipsy girl, kind and
anticipating, should be for me a sort of death-dealing providence, and
should make of me what I confess I could never, perhaps, have the
courage to make of myself--something that _has_ lived!"
"Oh, what you say is horrible! But with what motive could she have
attempted this crime?"
"How can I divine? I never did her any wrong, but have always been most
kind towards her. But the Bohemians are so strange! A superstition!--a
nothing!--how can I tell? The poor wretch, perhaps, does her feelings
great violence to carry on her machinations; but, after this week, I
shall be very ready to meet her designs half way."
At this moment the door closed suddenly. Bertha uttered a shriek of
alarm.
"Who has shut the door?"
"The wind," said Arnold.
The key turned twice in the lock.
"They are locking us in," exclaimed Bertha.
Arnold rushed to the door--shook it--but in vain.
"Alas! I am lost! It is nearly night, and shut up here with you, at the
end of the park!"
"But the window!" cried Arnold.
He hastened to it. He looked out, and saw no one.
He tried to break it. Impossible! The lead-work was so close that it
bent, but did not break, and the window was in a fixed and immovable
frame. That which lighted the door at the farther end was similarly
fastened.
"_Mon Dieu!_ have mercy upon me!" said Bertha, falling upon her knees.