CHAPTER XII

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.