"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."