"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?"