CHAPTER XXII

THE MEETING

A few days after the meeting we have recorded between Iris and M. de Brévannes, just as the hour of four o'clock sounded forth from the church of Saint Louis, a fog, rendered more intense by the proximity of the two arms of the Seine which surround the Ile Saint Louis, spread itself over this unfrequented spot.

To about the height of the ancient Hôtel de Brétonvilliers, then being pulled down, the _Quai d'Orleans_, as yet unprotected by a parapet, formed a steep mound which bordered the river on this side.

An individual, wrapped in a cloak, was slowly pacing along this ledge, stopping occasionally to observe the rapid current of the Seine, now swollen by the rains of winter. The wild and lonely spot was buried in its accustomed gloom and silence, while the rapidly increasing mist entirely concealed the opposite banks of the river, and, half veiling the dilapidated walls of the Hôtel de Brétonvilliers, communicated to them an almost grand and sublime aspect--the lofty walls, partly destroyed, with the occasional gaps left by the places which had once contained the arched windows, casting their dark time-coloured masses in bold relief against the grey sky, imparted almost the appearance of vast and imposing antique ruins.

The person we have mentioned seemed to find a melancholy pleasure in contemplating this solitary spot, as, with head bent forwards on his breast, he continued to walk up and down the mound, pausing, from time to time, to listen to the rush of waters, or to follow, with fixed gaze, the rapid flow of the current, as it pursued its boiling course.

His reveries were suddenly interrupted by the sound of approaching steps; he looked up and beheld advancing towards him a man of more than the usual height, with a long white beard, and who, although walking with a firm step, kept occasionally sounding the road with his stick as though to satisfy himself as to the safety of the path he trod.

The fog had by this time become very dense, and the old man (in whom the reader will doubtless have recognised Pierre Raimond), whose sight was feeble and uncertain, instead of following the direction of the Quai, had considerably deviated to the right, and advanced close upon the personage in the mantle ere he was aware of his vicinity, while the latter, standing on the edge of the mound, by a natural impulse, drew aside to allow the new comer to pass.

But scarcely had Pierre Raimond reached the summit of the acclivity, than he lost his balance, slipped to the edge of the embankment and disappeared in the river, throwing out his arms and crying aloud for help.

All this occurred in much less time than is required to narrate it.

To strip himself of his cloak, plunge into the Seine, and save from death the unfortunate being who had just been precipitated into its depths, was the first thought of the Prince de Hansfeld, for he it was who in the cold and solitude of a winter's evening took his lone walk on this deserted quay, which, as the reader will recollect, adjoined the Hôtel Lambert.

Weak and feeble, though possessed of a highly nervous frame, Arnold de Hansfeld felt, in the violent excitement of the moment, sufficient strength and energy to enable him, after the most incredible efforts, to grasp the sinking form of Pierre Raimond. The current was running so strong, that during the few seconds it took to effect the unhoped-for preservation of the old engraver, the two persons immersed were swept a considerable distance from the mound, and conveyed, most fortunately, to a level and accessible part of the shore, for the physical powers of M. de Hansfeld were wholly exhausted.

Preserving his habitual coolness amid the danger which threatened him, Pierre Raimond, instead (as is too frequently the case in such untoward circumstances) of paralysing the efforts of his preserver, facilitated the attempts to save him by every means in his power.

When M. de Hansfeld and Pierre Raimond were safely landed, the old engraver had in a manner to change places and become the preserver of him whose courageous act had saved himself from death; for to the factitious strength and feverish excitement which had hitherto sustained the prince succeeded the most perfect prostration, and he sank utterly insensible at the feet of the old man, ere the latter could pour forth the praises and blessings with which his heart was filled.

Night was fast approaching, and the deepening shades of twilight increased the effect of the thick fog which kept all objects wrapped in its dusky veil: in vain did Pierre Raimond shout aloud for help, his voice was lost amid the mingled roaring of the wind and waters; and had the weather been more propitious, it was a rare circumstance for any foot-passenger to pass those lonely quays after nightfall.

M. de Hansfeld shook with convulsive tremors, and it was but too evident that his slight and fragile frame must have been endowed with an almost superhuman courage to dare a peril its physical powers were so unequal to struggle against.

Still vigorous, and more than ordinarily robust for his age, the old engraver raised Arnold in his arms, as he would have done a child, and, carefully choosing his way, reached one of the landing-places conducting to the Quai. Pierre Raimond found himself exactly opposite his own house, situated at the corner of the Rue Poultier and the Quai d'Anjou.

Aided by his porter, the father of Bertha conveyed M. de Hansfeld into her apartment, and, spite of his veneration for the chamber of his daughter, he placed him there before an excellent fire.

As M. de Hansfeld regained his senses, he gazed around him with extreme astonishment.

"My preserver!" exclaimed the engraver, while large tears of gratitude trickled down his furrowed cheeks; "you have saved my life at the imminent hazard of your own; how shall I ever find words adequately to speak my thanks?"

"Where am I?" inquired Arnold de Hansfeld, striving to collect his ideas; "and who are you that speak to me?"

"Try to compose yourself, I pray, sir, while I relate to you what has happened. A short time since, deceived by the fog and my own imperfect sight, I got out of my right road, and found myself, without being aware of it, on the mound which forms an embankment to the river, opposite the spot where the Hôtel de Brétonvilliers is being pulled down, and, ere I could recover myself, I fell from the summit of the high path into the river, when, listening only to the generous devotion of your noble heart----"

"Ah, now I remember all," said the prince; "and I also recollect, that if my first thought was to endeavour to snatch you from the peril which menaced you, my second was to fear, lest my good intentions should prove fatal to you. I am so extremely weak, that you were probably obliged to defend yourself from my ill-managed efforts to preserve you, and even to save me yourself after my awkward endeavours to rescue you from danger," added M. de Hansfeld, with a smile full of sweetness.

"No, no, sir, I cannot have you undervalue your noble conduct in this way; like all brave and generous natures, you found sufficient power to back your efforts to preserve me from a certain death. Delivered from danger by you, it then became my turn to succour your feebleness, for it is very evident you have far more courage than strength. I therefore brought you hither; and you are now under the humble roof of him who owes his life to you, and who is well known in the neighbourhood as Pierre Raimond the engraver."

Just as M. de Hansfeld was about, in his turn, to declare his name and station, the chamber-door opened; at the sound Pierre Raimond turned suddenly round, and saw his daughter, who, pale and bathed in tears, her features distorted with grief, threw herself into his arms, exclaiming,--

"Father!--dearest father! will you not receive your poor child who has no shelter but in your arms?"

The abrupt entrance of Bertha, and the precipitation with which she threw herself into her father's arms as he turned towards her, had so entirely concealed M. de Hansfeld from her, that she was not aware of there being a third person in the apartment.

"He has driven me from him,--sent me from his roof," murmured Bertha, in a voice half-stifled with sobs, as she still kept her arms tightly twined round the neck of her father.

"My child," said the old man, in a low voice, "we are not alone."

A feeling of inexpressible joy shot through the frame of M. de Hansfeld at the sight of Bertha, whom he easily recognised as the young and lovely female who had made so vivid an impression on him at the theatre--an impression which had since assumed the form of an ideal, vague, and romantic passion.

It will be recollected, that the box in which the prince sat on the night in question was so dark, that, spite of Bertha's curiosity, she had not been able to obtain a view of him.

As Pierre Raimond pronounced the words, "We are not alone," his daughter, sinking with confusion, was hastening to the door, but the old engraver caught her by the hand, and, pointing to M. de Hansfeld, said,--

"My child, behold and bless the preserver of your parent!"

"What mean you, dearest father?"

"A little while ago, I lost myself in the fog, and, mistaking my road, fell into the river."

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Bertha, again throwing herself into her father's arms, and pressing him passionately to her heart, then gazed in his face with mute anxiety.

"This gentleman was accidentally on the Quai at the time," continued Pierre Raimond, "and generously saved my life, but his strength being entirely exhausted, I brought him hither."

"Ah, sir," cried Bertha, turning her expressive looks on the prince, "you have restored me my father at the very moment when I stand most in need of his tenderness and protection, and we, alas! can do nothing for you in return; but God will recompense you, and repay a debt far beyond our poor powers to discharge."

"Be assured, madame, that I am already more than paid in the happiness of finding I have been instrumental in preserving a father to his child."

"But, at least, permit us to know to whom we are so largely indebted," said Pierre Raimond.

"Yes, teach us what name to remember in the prayers we shall daily put up to heaven to invoke the blessing of the Almighty on your head," added Bertha.

"My name is Arnold,--Arnold Schneider," said M. de Hansfeld, blushing and with some hesitation.

Attributing this embarrassment to the extreme modesty of his preserver, the old engraver continued,--

"But where can I present my grateful thanks to him who has prevented my child from being fatherless?"

Again, a deep flush suffused the features of M. de Hansfeld, after a short pause he replied,--

"With your permission, my good sir, I will afford myself the gratification of calling occasionally to inquire after you, and thus receive the reward of what you are pleased to call my good actions."

"Nay, sir," said Pierre Raimond, "'tis not for me to insist, be it as you will. I can easily guess the feeling that makes you conceal your dwelling, and it may even be your real name, from us, but I honour and respect your reserve; only be generous enough to come and see me some times, since you will not permit me the gratification of offering up my grateful thanks at your own door. Promise me that you will come, and spare me even the appearance of ingratitude towards you."

"I do faithfully promise it, my worthy friend; but I feel quite recovered now; could you do me the favour to cause some conveyance to be sent for, by which I could return home? I will not longer trespass on your hospitality."

The porter being still in the chamber occupied by the engraver, Bertha went to despatch him in search of a coach. And ere many minutes had elapsed M. de Hansfeld had quitted the house of Pierre Raimond.

The old man, then exchanging his wet garments for dry clothing, returned to his unhappy daughter.