CHAPTER XXX

RECITAL

"An orphan almost as soon as I was born," said the prince, "I was brought up by an old servant of my family. We dwelt in a retired village, where we lived in complete solitude. The pastor was a painter and musician, and recognised in me certain inclinations for those arts, to which I devoted all my time.

"The first years of my life were peaceable and happy. I loved old Frantz as a father, and he took the most tender care of me, only reproaching me for forsaking athletic exercises, and only leaving my study for occasional walks in our lovely mountains. I had none of the tastes of my age, but was serious, taciturn, melancholy. Music caused in me the most ecstatic delight, to which I gave myself up unreservedly. At eighteen years of age I went with my old servant a journey to Italy. For two years I studied the _chefs-d'œuvre_ of the great masters in the different cities where we stayed, seeing very few persons, and being perfectly happy in my indolent, dreaming, contemplative life. I arrived at Venice. My admiration for the arts had, until then, occupied my whole existence; the passionate love with which they inspired me sufficed to occupy my heart. At Venice chance threw me in the society of a female, whose influence was destined to be so baneful to me. This woman, whom I married, was named Paula Monti."

"Was she handsome?" asked Bertha.

"Exceedingly!--but of a serious style of beauty. Strange contrast! I have always been weak and timid, and yet became enamoured of a woman of energetic and masculine character. It was my first love. I, unquestionably, obeyed rather an instinct, a desire to love something, than a deeply-seated feeling, and I became passionately enamoured of Paula Monti. She received my attentions with indifference, but I was not repulsed. She seemed to me unhappy. I had some hope. I redoubled my assiduities, and formally demanded her hand in marriage from her aunt. I was then rich, the match appeared eligible to her, and she consented. I had with Paula a decisive interview. I will confess that she told me she had ardently loved a man who was to have been her husband; and although this man was dead, his remembrance still remained so constant and so cherished in her thought that it absorbed her quite entirely, and that my love was indifferent to her. This confession wounded me deeply, yet I saw in Paula's frankness but a guarantee for the future, and I did not despair of overcoming the coldness she testified by my cares and attention. She did not conceal from me, that but for the unceasing influence of the past, which she so bitterly deplored, she might, perhaps, have loved me.

"Then I cradled myself in the most visionary hopes--my passion was real--Paula Monti was touched by it; but her delicacy then took alarm at the disproportion of our fortunes.

"The loss of a lawsuit had completely ruined her family. I overcame her scruples--she promised me her hand, but repeating that she could not offer me more than a perfectly sisterly affection.

"Yet I found incredible happiness in this chilling union. At first my hopes increased; for, excepting some moments of extreme grief, although Paula's disposition was melancholy, her temper was equal, and she was at times even affectionate. I already anticipated a more happy future, when one day--oh! no, no--never--I never can proceed!" said the prince, concealing his face in his hands.

Bertha and her father looked on in silence, not venturing to ask Arnold to continue a recital evidently so painful to him; but, after a pause, he thus proceeded:--

"Why should I conceal her crimes? My indulgence has been a culpable weakness, and I ought to pay the penalty. We were passing the summer at Trieste; for several days Paula had been in a dark, irritable humour, and I scarcely saw her. When she was in these fits of dark sorrow, she could not bear any one near her but a young gipsy girl, whom she had adopted out of charity. This poor child was, out of gratitude, tenderly devoted to my wife.

"In order to understand what follows," said the prince, "I must enter into some few minute particulars. At the end of the garden of our house at Trieste was a pavilion where we used to take tea nearly every evening. One night Paula had, after much entreaty, promised to come and pass an hour there with me, I was in hopes that I might thus distract her from her mournful thoughts.

"I shall never forget the sad and despairing expression of her countenance during this evening; she received almost with anger and disdain some words of tenderness which I addressed to her.

"Painfully wounded at her repulsive conduct I quitted the pavilion.

"After a few turns in the garden I became more composed; remembering that Paula had forewarned me that she was still sometimes under the influence of painful recollections, I returned to the pavilion. She had left it. They had brought in the tea during my absence, and I found the cup of sugared milk, which I took every evening, standing prepared for me. I felt grateful to Paula for the attention, by which, however, I did not profit. I had a spaniel to which I was greatly attached, and mechanically I presented to him the cup which Paula had prepared for me. He drank eagerly, and almost instantly the unfortunate animal fell on the ground, trembled in every limb, and died after a few moments' agony."

"Oh, I understand--how horrible!" exclaimed Pierre Raimond.

Bertha looked at her father with surprise. "What do you mean, my dear father?" she said. Then, as if suddenly enlightened by a moment's reflection, she added, horror-struck, "No, no, it is impossible, Monsieur Arnold--impossible! a woman is incapable of a crime so frightful!"

"You think so?" replied Arnold, with bitterness. "After some minutes' reflection I said as you do, 'It is impossible!' I have attributed to chance this fearful fact, and even reproached myself cruelly for having suspected Paula for a moment."

"And when you saw your wife again," said Pierre Raimond, "how did she receive you?"

"She was perfectly calm and self-possessed, and if I had any doubts remaining they would have been completely dissipated in the evening. I had left Paula dull, and almost morose; the next day I found her tranquil, affectionate, and kind; she held out her hand, and asked my pardon for having left me so abruptly on the previous evening."

"Such hypocrisy is inconceivable," said Pierre Raimond.

"Oh, no, no--she was not culpable! her calmness proves it," said Bertha.

"I thought as you do," continued M. de Hansfeld, "there was so much sincerity in her accent. And her look, her language, was so natural, that, overcome by remorse and shame, I fell at her feet, and, bursting into tears, begged her pardon. She looked at me with surprise. I dared not explain myself further, for if innocent my suspicion was an abominable outrage. I replied to her that I feared I had been hasty with her on the previous evening. She believed me, and here this ended.

"How can I describe to you what passed in me after that day? My mad love for Paula increased, I may say in proportion to the reproaches I made against myself for my suspicions. I could not forgive myself for having dared to accuse a woman who had given me so many proofs of frankness."

"In truth," observed Bertha, "when you had asked her hand, why did she declare to you that her heart was not free, at the risk of breaking off a marriage so advantageous for her? No! no! she was innocent of that horrible crime."

"And you had no enemies?" asked Pierre Raimond.

"None that I know of."

"How, then, do you account for the sudden, convulsive death of the spaniel, in whose death there was every sign of poisoning?"

"I continued to bewilder myself on this inexplicable point, to prevent as it were my thoughts from dwelling on it, so anxious was I to believe in Paula's innocence. Painfully did I expiate this atrocious suspicion; twenty times I was on the point of confessing all to her, but I dared not, her affection for me was already so lukewarm, so uncertain--such an avowal would for ever have alienated us. However, for my own repose, I ought to have told her all, for she began to find my language occasionally wild,--my involuntary references seemed incoherent. Sometimes profoundly touched by a word or a tender attention on her part, I cried in a kind of bewilderment, 'I am very guilty--forgive me--I was wrong!'

"She inquired what I meant by these words, and then recovering myself, instead of explaining, I but reiterated more passionate protestations. Alas! very soon the slight affection I had obtained by so many cares, with so much trouble, gave way to a fresh coldness. She sometimes looked at me with an unquiet, frightened air--her fits of melancholy increased, and then the suspicions I had at first so energetically repulsed returned to my mind; then I drove them away again. Sometimes in spite of myself, I examined distrustfully the meat that was placed before me, and then, blushing with fear at this fresh insult to Paula, I left the table suddenly.

"In this trying and painful struggle my health became weaker, my temper soured, whilst Paula became more and more reserved towards me."

"Oh! what a life! what a life!" exclaimed Bertha, as she wiped away her tears.

"Alas!" said M. de Hansfeld, "that was nothing. We quitted Trieste at the end of autumn; my wife wished to pass the winter at Geneva, and then come to France. Surprised by a violent storm, we stopped a few leagues from Trieste in a wretched road-side inn at nightfall. The tempest redoubled its fury, and a torrent we had to cross had overflowed its banks; we were therefore compelled to pass the night at this _auberge_. The place was lonely, and the master of the hovel was an ill-looking fellow. I proposed to my wife that we should watch as late as possible and then sleep in a chair, that we might set out again before daybreak, as soon as the road was practicable. Our suite consisted of my two servants and the young girl who accompanied Paula. I had always been exceedingly kind to this girl, because I knew that it would please my wife; besides Iris (that was the Bohemian girl's name) was almost as much devoted to me as to her mistress. We occupied on that fatal night--ah! how fatal!--a small apartment, of which the only door opened into a closet in which was Frantz, my old servant. Paula could not conceal her fears; the wind seemed to shake the house to its very foundations, and we both watched very late. Alone in this chamber, I seated myself on a miserable truckle-bed, whilst my wife reposed in an arm-chair. Sleep overpowered me in spite of all my efforts.

"I am ignorant how long I slept, when I was suddenly awakened by a sharp pain inside my left arm. The room was completely dark. My first impulse was to seize the hand I felt pressing upon me--this thin and delicate hand grasped a sharp-pointed stiletto."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Bertha, alarmed and clasping her hands.

"What! another attempt? that is, indeed, frightful!" said Pierre Raimond.

Arnold continued,--

"Thanks to the darkness, they had thrust the stiletto between my body and my left arm, which was closely pressed against my side. Owing to the slight resistance which the blade of the dagger met in passing through this narrow space, it might be supposed that it had penetrated my breast. It was this mistake that saved me, and I escaped with only a slight wound in my arm!"

"How fortunate!" said Bertha,

"I have told you that my first movement, when I awoke, was to seize the hand which I felt pressing upon me, suddenly that hand became icy cold; I extended my other hand and touched a woman's gown. I smelt a slight perfume, such as Paula always used,--a horrid idea possessed my mind. I remembered the poison at Trieste--I had no longer any doubt. This revelation was so overwhelming that I cannot describe what passed within me; my reason wandered, and for some seconds I believed myself the sport of some horrible dream. During this vertigo the hand I had seized broke away, and when I recovered I was alone and still in darkness. 'Frantz! Frantz!' I cried, knocking at the wainscot which separated me from the closet in which my servant was. Frantz was not asleep, and in a minute entered the room bearing a light in his hand."

"And your wife?" inquired Bertha.

"Imagine my surprise!--my amazement! I almost doubted my senses! Paula was soundly asleep in the arm-chair by the fire-side."

"She feigned sleep," said Pierre Raimond.

"I was bewildered! She was asleep, or rather she pretended deep and quiet sleep so perfectly that her soft and regular breathing was not in the slightest degree affected by the terrible emotion she must unquestionably have felt. Her features were calm, her mouth slightly open, her complexion lightly tinged with the flush of sleep, and her countenance usually so serious was then almost smiling."

"It is scarcely credible," exclaimed Pierre Raimond; "what! your wife slept tranquilly after such an attempt?"

"Her sleep, I assure you, was so perfectly serene that I could not believe my eyes. Pale and haggard, I looked at her almost with affright."

"And there were no other women but herself in the _auberge_?" asked Bertha.

"None."

"And the young girl, the Bohemian?" inquired Pierre Raimond.

"Was in bed in a room which led out of the room in which Frantz was watching--he did not sleep--had a light, and it was impossible to enter our apartment without being seen."

"It must then have been so--this time--it must have been she!" said Bertha. "_Mon Dieu!_ is such a crime possible?"

"The dissimulation astonishes me more than the crime," said Pierre Raimond.

"A last proof left me without any doubt," added Arnold; "on the floor at the feet of my wife, I saw a Florentine dagger--a valuable weapon chiselled by Benvenuto Cellini, which had been, I believe, left to Paula by her father."

"From this moment, then, you kept silent no longer," cried the engraver; "and it was after this new crime that you left this infamous creature in Germany?"

"If I hesitated to relate to you this horrible history, my friend," replied the prince, with a confused air, "it was because I was certain of my own weakness, or rather of the inexplicable influence that Paula maintained over me."

"What! after this fresh attempt?"

"Oh, if you knew what a frightful thing it is to doubt!"

"But this dagger-blow?" said Pierre Raimond.

"But this deep, tranquil sleep? the awaking so gentle, so peaceable?"

"When she saw you wounded, what did she say?" inquired Bertha.

"To depict her agony, her amazement, her anxious cares, would be impossible; with the most natural air in the world she declared that an investigation ought to take place. She also had remarked the sinister appearance of the master of the _auberge_, and, like myself, exhausted herself in vain conjecture. Frantz declared that he had seen no one pass him, and that they must have got in by a window which opened into the balcony, but that window was found closely shut. Paula's tone was so natural that my old servant, who never liked her, and had witnessed my marriage most reluctantly, never for an instant thought of accusing my wife."

"But the little thin hand you seized--the smell of the peculiar perfume which your wife used!" said Pierre Raimond.

"I repeat to you that my reason wandered in this labyrinth of singular contradictions. Paula, aided by Frantz, insisted on dressing my wound herself, and there was not the slightest affectation either in her manner or her language."

"To commit such a crime, and display such hypocrisy, is the height of wickedness!" said the engraver.

"Unquestionably; and the monstrousness of such a character excited my doubts in that of the evidence before me. To put the cope-stone on fatality, Paula, from interest, pity, or calculation, was never so affectionate, I ought almost say tender, as when bestowing all her attention upon me after this accident."

"Stratagem! infernal stratagem!" cried Pierre Raimond.

"It was, perhaps, remorse for her crime," said Bertha.

"It was my misfortune to hesitate in turns amongst so many conflicting facts. It would have been less distressing for me to have believed Paula completely guilty or completely innocent; but, on the contrary, by an inconceivable mobility of impression, I passed in turns from passionate love to fits of anger and horror. My agonies at Trieste were nothing in comparison with the torture I then endured. A head more weak than mine would not have resisted these shocks. Sometimes, after having testified to my wife, by some incoherent word, the terror with which she inspired me, reflecting that, in spite of frightful appearances, I had no real certainty, and might be perhaps deceived, I sobbed bitterly and implored her pardon. In the end she believed my senses were wandering. What shall I tell you? At first I found a bitter satisfaction in lending myself to this report, then in increasing and giving credibility to it by studied whims. This was not all; as soon as they believed me liable to fits of lunacy, I was enabled by this plea to give way to my mistrust, whilst my precaution being attributed to my derangement, my wife was in no way compromised. Sometimes believing my life threatened, I shut myself up alone for whole days, only eating bread and fruit which my faithful Frantz bought for me himself, and at other times, in my excessive terror I did not dare even to touch these simple aliments. At other times, I blushed at my alarm, and was convinced of Paula's innocence, and then returned to her with the most bitter repentance, but her reception of me was chill and disdainful."

"Poor Arnold!" said Pierre Raimond, with emotion; "no doubt you are weak, but this very weakness proceeds from a noble source; you fear to accuse Paula unjustly, and in truth there is something startling in saying to any one and that without certain proofs, 'You are a homicide, twice have you sought to assassinate me!'"

"Yes! and especially when these overwhelming words are to be addressed to a woman you have passionately loved; and when, too, together with material and almost undeniable proofs, there are other moral truths quite to the contrary, and when, moreover, a secret voice, a hidden revelation says to you with irresistible authority, 'No, this woman is not guilty.' Oh, I assure you, it is a hell!--a hell!"

"Now," said Bertha, "I can imagine why you have feigned derangement."

"But," added Pierre Raimond, "a last attempt has left you no doubt."

"None. The crime appeared then to me avowed; or, rather, as my love was exhausted, expended in these struggles and continual anguish, I had this time more courage than I had had before."

"And you now no longer love her?" said Bertha.

"No, for admitting even that I was as mad as I seemed, I deserved, at least, some pity, some interest, and my wife shewed none. Profiting by the solitude in which I lived (for we were then in a large city), she visited and went abroad a great deal, regardless of me. This hardness of heart revolted me. Either my wife was guilty, and my generosity to her ought to have touched her soul, however perverse; or she was innocent, and then the fits of grief which came over me after having vaguely accused her ought to have moved her."

"But why did you never frankly open the question? Why did you never boldly state your reproaches?" inquired Pierre Raimond.

"Only reflect: I should have but to say to her, 'I suspect you, I accuse you of having twice attempted to assassinate me'--might I not be deceived?"

"In truth, the position was a frightful one," said Bertha; "and what was the last occurrence which led to your separation?"

"A very short time since," said De Hansfeld, lowering his eyes, "I occupied with my wife an isolated house. I know not why, but my suspicions were renewed with fresh violence, and I very seldom left my apartment. However, sometimes in the evening, I went into a small _belvéder_ at the very top of the house, a kind of very high terrace, surrounded by a light iron rail high enough to rest upon, and upon which I usually leaned my arms to contemplate from a distance the melancholy horizon which a great city presents during the night; and there I sometimes passed hours in deep reverie. One evening, Providence willed it, that instead of leaning and pressing my weight at once upon it, as usual, I placed my hand only upon it. I had scarcely touched it, when, to my great alarm, it gave way and fell with a horrid crash!"

"Heaven!" exclaimed Bertha.

"The height was so great that the iron grating was broken into fragments when it fell on the stones."

"What an atrocious combination!" said Pierre Raimond, raising his hands to heaven.

"My death had been inevitable if I had leaned on this balustrade. Whom could I accuse if not Paula? No one had any interest in my death! Ignorant that a failure had carried off nearly all my fortune, she no doubt remembered that in happier days I had settled the whole of my property upon her. This idea had never occurred to me as long as my love lasted. It has been impossible for me to suspect those I love of infamy. I might, perhaps, have believed my wife capable of obeying an impulse of insensate hatred, but not of acting on so base and odious a calculation. However, my love once extinct before the evidence of so murderous an attempt, I did not hesitate at any supposition; only to avoid such sad scandal, I contented myself with declaring to Paula that she must instantly quit the city we inhabited, that I never would see her again, but leave her to her own remorse. Why need I say more? why should I rouse your indignation by alluding to the audacity with which my wife braved my reproaches, the horrible hypocrisy with which she affected to attribute them to the derangement of my senses? Such effrontery revolted me--I left her. From this moment my life has been miserable, but, at least, I have been released from horrible apprehensions.

"Some time after, I met with you," said De Hansfeld, extending his hand to Pierre Raimond; "you spoke of a lucky star. You are right, mine guided me upon your path; before I was so fortunate as to save your life, I was alone, dejected, and suffering under the blow of the bitterest remembrances; all has now changed, and I have found in you a friend; my chagrins are passed, and if I could rely on the permanence of our intimacy, I never could hope for greater happiness!"

"And why should our intimacy ever fail you? The charm of friendship with honest folk is in its certainty; who can come between us and our amity? Is it not based on services rendered--reciprocity of services? Is it not equally dear to my daughter, you, and me? And then, indeed, the sad reasons which make us find in our intimacy a kind of refuge against cruel thoughts will always exist: for you, they are your wife's crimes; for Bertha, the cruel conduct of her husband; for me, the resentment of my child's wrongs."

"You are right--we have nothing to fear for the future."

"How you must have suffered, M. Arnold!" said Bertha, sorrowfully.

"If you have evinced any weakness," added Pierre Raimond, "your conduct has been admirable for its mildness. It is the property of a mind replete with delicacy and elevation to impose on itself the cruellest tortures of doubt rather than risk a reproach, terrible--very terrible--if, contrary to all probability, your wife had been innocent. This long recital of your misfortunes gives me fresh proof of the goodness of your heart; and as one has always the defects of one's qualities, I see, even in the kind of weakness you may be reproached with, evidence of the most exquisite delicacy."

"You are too indulgent, my friend."

"I am just, and as little of a flatterer as Michael Angelo--am I not?" added the old man, with a hearty laugh.

"This is my hour for lessons," said Bertha; "this sorrowful confidence has finished at the right time--it has quite saddened me. Oh! M. Arnold, what sufferings! You ought to have a great deal of happiness to make you forget them!"

At this moment two of Bertha's young pupils entered and broke off the conversation.

De Hansfeld left Pierre Raimond and his daughter, somewhat consoled by the confession he had made, but still regretting the _incognito_ he kept with them.

More than ever desirous of sending his wife away the next day, De Hansfeld returned to the Hôtel Lambert.