"M. de Brévannes," cried Pierre Raimond, "four years ago, when my daughter was lying at the point of death in this very chamber, I told you I would rather lose her then than see her perish one day through the wretchedness you would occasion her. I spoke truly. You will be her death!" "Father!" said Bertha, "I must not allow you to remain under so fatal an error; and, at whatever sacrifice, I will speak the truth, nor warrant by my silence those reproaches I pledge myself are undeserved by my husband. 'Tis true I concealed from you some of those trifling disagreements from which the happiest unions are not exempt; but you were so delighted to learn, that in all essential points I was perfectly, unqualifiedly happy, that I was unwilling to dispel the illusion which could do no person any harm, but which I trusted would be the means of still more attaching you to him. You judge too severely." "My child! I can make allowances for your weakness, which renders it the more imperative in me to evince a necessary degree of severity." "Severity!" cried M. de Brévannes, with a burst of sardonic laughter--"severity! Upon my word I like the word vastly. It seems then that I am here to be lectured by you into a right understanding of my duties. May I ask if you are aware to whom you are speaking?" "Too, too well!--to the destroyer of my good, my innocent child." "You use strong language, my good sir; your revolutionary reminiscences disturb your brain." "Bertha!" said the engraver, with stern _hauteur_--"take this man from my sight!" "Come--come, Charles, I pray--I beseech you! adieu, dearest father, till Thursday next,--pardon me for quitting you so abruptly now--possibly I may come and see you again to-morrow," added poor Bertha, anxious at all risks to terminate so painful a discussion as the present. "Since, sir, you have taken upon you to dispense advice," interrupted M. de Brévannes, "perhaps you might judiciously recommend your daughter not to adopt the unwise plan of treating her husband with coldness and contempt, after having justly awakened his jealousy." "Bertha!" said old Raimond, "what am I to understand by these words?" "Ah, Charles, is it well of you to recall the scene of----" "Be assured, madam, whomever else you may impose on, I am not the dupe of your affected delicacy--your over-strained scruples--you are carrying on some base, some disgraceful intrigue, but rely upon it, I will detect it." "For mercy's sake, Charles, talk not thus in my father's presence! Adieu, dear father, adieu." After a momentary silence, Pierre Raimond approached his daughter, and, gazing steadfastly on her, said, in a deep solemn voice,-- "Bertha, do you merit this charge?" "No, father," answered Bertha, with all the dignified simplicity of truth.