CHAPTER XLVII

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.