CHAPTER XI

THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER

Bertha de Brévannes usually passed every Sunday and Thursday morning with her father, Pierre Raimond, who still dwelt in the Isle Saint Louis, Rue Poultier, near to the Hôtel Lambert, the residence of the Prince de Hansfeld.

Since his daughter's return to Paris, the old engraver had not once seen her, but, informed of her arrival, he awaited her coming on the Sunday morning, for the different scenes we have related took place during the night of Saturday.

Full of joy at the prospect of embracing his beloved child, Pierre Raimond, according to usual custom, bestowed all possible care to give an air of festivity to his humble abode, which consisted of a small sitting-room and two chambers, up four pairs of stairs. From the windows of these small apartments a view might be obtained of the quay and river Seine, while, in the horizon, the tops of the tall trees in the Jardin des Plantes were discernible, and, farther still, appeared the lofty dome of the Panthéon.

The chamber formerly occupied by Bertha was almost worshipped by the engraver, who had not permitted the least change to be made in any of its arrangements. The little painted bedstead, with its white cotton curtains, the old walnut-tree chest of drawers, which had formerly belonged to Madame Raimond, the small, rickety pianoforte, on which Bertha had acquired her musical proficiency, were all there as she left them; and there, too, safe under a glass frame, were the wreaths of victory gained by the youthful aspirant during the course of her studies at the Conservatoire de la Musique.

Pierre Raimond could not be less than seventy years of age. His tall figure, bent beneath the pressure of his years, his bald head, white beard, which he had ceased for many years to touch with a razor, added considerably to the stern severity of his features; his eyelids were nearly always half closed, and proved but too painfully how much his sight had suffered from his incessant labour. This infirmity, added to a slight nervous tremor which had settled upon him after a long and severe illness, had compelled him to relinquish his occupation of engraving music, and, sorely against his will, to accept a pension from M. de Brévannes of twelve hundred francs.

The chamber of Pierre Raimond, which had formerly been his studio, was scrupulously neat and clean; beneath the window stood his work-table, with the implements of his now abandoned profession laid in exact order, as though for immediate use, upon some metal plates, prepared for the engraving of music. A small iron bedstead, a table, four chairs of walnut-tree wood, composed the almost anchorite-like simplicity of the fittings up of the apartment.

Over the recess, where stood his bed, hung an ancient sword of honour, obtained by Pierre Raimond during that period of his youth when he had served as a volunteer in the Republican army.

Above the sword was a framed copy of the celebrated appeal made by the Convention to the people upon the occasion of the assassination of the French envoys.

"_The 9th Floréal of the 7th year, at 9 o'clock in the Evening, The Austrian Government caused the Assassination of the Ministers of the French Republic, BONNIER, ROBERJOT, and JEAN DEBRY, Charged by the Directory to negotiate the Peace of Rastadt_, THEIR SMOKING BLOOD DEMANDS AND WILL OBTAIN JUST VENGEANCE."

Pierre Raimond religiously preserved this curious specimen of the savage eloquence of that terrible period, which, however blood-stained, was still not wholly without glory. It is scarcely necessary to say, that the engraver remained firm to the Republican Utopia only as far as its views were generous and patriotic.

Honest though unpolished--just and conscientious--the only fault to be found with Pierre Raimond was his somewhat overstrained notions as to the moral distinctions which, in his opinion, existed between the rich and the poor. And, if he carried the pride of poverty too far, he might fairly be excused on the score of his noble and unaffected disinterestedness.

Acting upon these principles, he had refused the proffered hand of the daughter of a rich engraver, because he loved the mother of Bertha, who was poor as himself.

After thirty years of incessant application, hard labour, and economy, Pierre Raimond had succeeded in amassing the sum of 25,000 francs, which he destined for the future provision of his daughter; the bankruptcy of the lawyer in whose hands he had placed the money deprived him of the dear gratification of seeing his child independent, and left him no help but to redouble his exertions, in order to bestow on his daughter, then quite young, some profession, by which she might honestly earn her bread.

From this slight sketch the reader may form some notion of the intense eagerness with which Pierre Raimond awaited his beloved Bertha.

At length his watchful ears were gladdened with the sound of a vehicle stopping on the quay, then a quick, light, and well-known step sounded up the staircase. A few seconds more, and Bertha, rushing into the room, threw herself into her father's arms, who, tenderly embracing her, cried, in tones of deep emotion,--

"At length, then, my child, I embrace you once again."

"Dear, dear father!" replied Bertha, weeping tears of joy.

The tender parent himself disencumbered his child of her bonnet and cloak, which he carefully placed on his bed; then, seating her in an arm-chair beside the fire, he took her chilled hands in his.

"Poor dear!" said he, "you are quite frozen,--there, try and warm yourself."

"Ah, dear father, you spoil me, as you ever did."

Without replying to her remark, the old man gazed with intense delight on the sweet face before him, then murmured, "Once more,--once more, after six long weary months of absence."

"Dearest father, the time, then, has seemed to you very long."

"But you have been quite happy, my child, have you not?"

"Oh, yes--quite--quite."

"Perfectly happy?"

"Yes, indeed, as much so as ever."

"And the thoughts of your felicity have armed me with courage to endure your absence. And your husband is still kind, good, and devoted to you?"

"Certainly, my dear father."

"And, during the six months you have passed in Lorraine, no doubt the constant enjoyment of each other's society has been far more congenial to your mutual tastes than your mode of life in Paris."

"Yes, father."

"And you still rejoice in being his wife?"

"I do, indeed. But, dearest father, why these questions?"

"Brévannes, in fact, is precisely what you thought him when you assured me that you would wed none other than he?"

"Assuredly he is," answered Bertha, more and more surprised at the close questioning pursued by her father, but which will sufficiently shew how scrupulously she had concealed her unhappiness from her father.

"You find him worthy of inspiring such a passion as that which you assured me would cause your death, unhappy child, if I still refused my assent to your union?"

"Indeed, father, Charles has not changed since then."

"Heaven be praised! then I confess, I am deceived."

"Deceived, dear father! and in what respect?"

"Can you guess wherefore this year I have awaited your return to Paris with so much more impatience than in previous years?"

"No, dear father, indeed I cannot."

"And you know not either, why my joy at welcoming you to-day exceeds that I have hitherto experienced?"

"Father, I beseech you, explain to me the purport of all these strange inquiries; you know not how they pain me--but, gracious Heaven, you weep--father, dearest father, what mean these tears?"

"Can you not guess? can you not perceive that they flow from joy--oh, yes, heartfelt, overwhelming joy."

"Oh, so much the better."

"My child, the trial has been a severe one."

"What trial do you speak of?"

"It cost me so much, old and infirm as I am, to pass my days alone; I, who from the hour of your birth had never passed a morning or evening without embracing you,--you who absorbed the love that was once shared between you and your mother, think what a painful thing it must be for me only to see you for a few hours each week, and to lose sight of you for months together."

"Dearest father, be assured that I suffered equally with yourself."

"That is not all; the time you passed here, while your husband was in Italy, rendered our separation still more painful; it was like losing you a second time."

"But, my dear father----"

"I know what you are going to say--when you were first married, Brévannes offered me a small suite of rooms in his house, and you yourself subsequently reiterated the proposition, which I, however, constantly refused to accept."

"Alas, yes!"

"Because, Bertha, I doubted this Brévannes, and the duration of his at first so violent love, I could not have remained a passive spectator of your unhappiness; my very anxiety might have disturbed your domestic comfort: for these reasons, then, I imposed a severe restraint on my inclinations. No, said I, I will wait, Bertha has never deceived me, and if, after four years of marriage, she still proclaims herself happy, I shall then feel satisfied as to the future, and be equally persuaded of the goodness of Brévannes' nature — that moment has arrived--I find your husband worthy of you, and this very day will I say to him, 'I have doubted you, I have proved myself wrong, and I am here to solicit your pardon. Now that my faith and confidence in you are well established, I accept the offer you once made me, and I will never again quit Bertha or yourself.'"

"What are you saying, father?" exclaimed Bertha.

"I say, my beloved child, that my years upon this earth are too few to be passed at a distance from you. No, no, henceforward I will enjoy the happiness permitted me by Providence, and henceforward your husband, yourself, and your old father, shall live in indissoluble union."

Bertha's only reply was to throw herself weeping on the neck of the old man, who, mistaking both the movement and the tears which accompanied it, tenderly pressed his daughter in his arms, saying, "Why, you little simpleton, if joy thus agitates and overcomes you, what effect would grief have? To tell you the truth," added Pierre Raimond, and smiling, "though I affect all this stoicism and resolution, I am as much delighted and moved as yourself at the thoughts of our never again being parted from each other;" and with these words he passed his trembling hand across his humid eyes.

The situation of Bertha was most cruel.

Not content with filling up the measure of her own injuries, M. de Brévannes had just taunted her with the trifling pittance granted by him to her father, and now, at this moment, was Pierre Raimond, deceived by the generous deception of his daughter, preparing to take up his abode with M. de Brévannes, promising himself uninterrupted harmony and domestic happiness.

Until then Bertha had contrived to conceal her bitter sorrows, and to attribute her dejection of spirits to her regret at living away from him; but the cruel contrast presented by the hopes and expectations of Pierre Raimond with the scene of violence and outrage which had occurred but the previous night between Bertha and M. de Brévannes, overthrew the fortitude of the miserable wife, and left her almost paralysed with fear and bewildered ideas. Instead, therefore, of receiving her father's announcement with all the delight it merited, she involuntarily threw herself into his arms, bedewing his venerable countenance with her tears.

To Pierre Raimond the heart of his child was like an open book, and at first he ascribed her tears to joy at so unexpected a surprise; but when these fast-falling tears became quick, convulsive sobs, and Bertha, resting her aching temples on her father's shoulders, wrung the old man's hands in piteous agony, then did Pierre Raimond begin to comprehend the truth:--his former suspicions returned, and, putting his daughter almost rudely from him, he exclaimed in a severe tone, "Bertha, you have deceived me--you are not happy!"

The poor girl, recalled to a sense of her duty by these words, shuddered at her own imprudence, and bitterly, though too late, regretted the emotion she had been unable to restrain or conceal. But, as she strove for words to reassure her parent, the door was suddenly opened: "Gracious heavens!" cried Bertha, in extreme terror, "my husband!"

And M. de Brévannes, without knocking, or any other announcement, abruptly entered the apartment of the engraver.