Bertha came in at this moment. It would be difficult to paint the delightful expression of her countenance when she saw her father and Arnold thus clasping hands: her eyes were filled with joyful tears. "Come to my rescue, my dear child," said Pierre Raimond; "I am beaten. My silly grey beard is obliged to bow itself before this venerable light-brown moustache. He remains as calm as reason itself, whilst I am as much excited as if I were on the wing." "And what was the subject of this grave discussion?" inquired Bertha, smiling and looking alternately at Arnold and her father. "Michael Angelo," said Pierre Raimond. "Raphael," said Arnold. "What, M. Arnold! you cannot yield to my father?" "I should like to see him yield, indeed, without discussion! I am not desirous that he should yield, but that he should be convinced." "As to that, M. Raimond, I have my doubts. Conviction does not flash across me; and Raphael----" "But Michael Angelo----" "Come, come--to make you both agree I will play you the air from _Fidelio_, of which M. Arnold is so fond, and of which he has made you as fond as himself, father." "Confess, _Don Raphael_," said the old man to Arnold, laughing as he spoke, "that she has more sense than we have." "Decidedly, _Signor Michael Angelo_; and Madame Bertha knows very well, that when we listen to her we have no inclination to talk." "Oh, M. Arnold, I am not the dupe of your flatteries." "To try him, my dear, begin the overture to _Fidelio_. You know it is my favourite piece ever since our friend has made me comprehend its beauties." Bertha began to play this piece with _love_; the presence of Arnold seemed to give a new power to her talent. At the end of a few minutes M. de Hansfeld appeared completely absorbed in deep and painful meditation; although he had often heard Bertha play this music, the sad feelings its recollections excited bad never been more painfully aroused. [Illustration 13: "Bertha, who from time to time looked at Arnold, exclaimed, 'M. Arnold, what ails you? oh! how pale you are!'"] Bertha, who from time to time looked at Arnold, was alarmed at his increasing paleness, and exclaimed, "Monsieur Arnold, what ails you? Oh! how pale you are!" "Your hand is icy cold, my friend," said Pierre Raimond, who was sitting beside M. de Hansfeld. "It is nothing--nothing!" he replied; "but I am so ridiculously weak. There are certain airs which are really _dates_ to me, and many of the melodies of _Fidelio_ are closely connected with past sorrows." "Yet I have played this piece before to you," said Bertha, leaving the piano, and seating herself beside her father. "You have, indeed, and I had the greatest pleasure in listening to your brilliant execution. But to-day--I know not how it is--oh, forgive me, forgive me, that I cannot subdue my emotion!" and De Hansfeld hid his face in his hands.