"But why? because your husband seems returning towards you with better feelings, should you be alarmed? Suppose even that this kindness is assumed to ensnare you in some way, what have you to fear? What can he surprise? After all, what do I ask but to enjoy fairly what he freely offered to me--the passing of a few days near you? I swear to you, not answering what my wishes may be hereafter, but as I am at this moment the happiest of men, I ask nothing beyond this; the present is so delightful, so sweet, that it would be profanation to think of more." The rain increased in violence. The day which had been all along very gloomy was nearly at its close. Bertha and the prince entered the châlet. 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.