CHAPTER LII. REVELATIONS.
During the visit of Angela and Agricola to the Common Dwelling-house,the band of Wolves, joined upon the road by many of the hauntersof taverns, continued to march towards the factory, which thehackney-coach, that brought Rodin from Paris, was also fast approaching.M. Hardy, on getting out of the carriage with his friend, M. de Blessac,had entered the parlor of the house that he occupied next the factory.M. Hardy was of middle size, with an elegant and slight figure, whichannounced a nature essentially nervous and impressionable. His foreheadwas broad and open, his complexion pale, his eyes black, full at onceof mildness and penetration, his countenance honest, intelligent, andattractive.
One word will paint the character of M. Hardy. His mother had called himher Sensitive Plant. His was indeed one of those fine and exquisitelydelicate organizations, which are trusting, loving, noble, generous, butso susceptible, that the least touch makes them shrink into themselves.If we join to this excessive sensibility a passionate love for art, afirst-rate intellect, tastes essentially refined, and then think of thethousand deceptions, and numberless infamies of which M. Hardy must havebeen the victim in his career as a manufacturer, we shall wonder howthis heart, so delicate and tender, had not been broken a thousandtimes, in its incessant struggle with merciless self-interest. M. Hardyhad indeed suffered much. Forced to follow the career of productiveindustry, to honor the engagements of his father, a model of uprightnessand probity, who had yet left his affairs somewhat embarrassed, inconsequence of the events of 1815, he had succeeded, by perseveranceand capacity, in attaining one of the most honorable positions in thecommercial world. But, to arrive at this point, what ignoble annoyanceshad he to bear with, what perfidious opposition to combat, what hatefulrivalries to tire out!
Sensitive as he was, M. Hardy would a thousand times have fallen avictim to his emotions of painful indignation against baseness, ofbitter disgust at dishonesty, but for the wise and firm support of hismother. When he returned to her, after a day of painful struggleswith odious deceptions, he found himself suddenly transported into anatmosphere of such beneficent purity, of such radiant serenity, that helost almost on the instant the remembrance of the base things by whichhe had been so cruelly tortured during the day; the pangs of his heartwere appeased at the mere contact of her great and lofty soul; andtherefore his love for her resembled idolatry. When he lost her, heexperienced one of those calm, deep sorrows which have no end--whichbecome, as it were, part of life, and have even sometimes their daysof melancholy sweetness. A little while after this great misfortune, M.Hardy became more closely connected with his workmen. He had always beena just and good master; but, although the place that his mother leftin his heart would ever remain void, he felt as it were a redoubledoverflowing of the affections, and the more he suffered, the more hecraved to see happy faces around him. The wonderful ameliorations, whichhe now produced in the physical and moral condition of all about him,served, not to divert, but to occupy his grief. Little by little, hewithdrew from the world, and concentrated his life in three affections:a tender and devoted friendship, which seemed to include all pastfriendships--a love ardent and sincere, like a last passion--and apaternal attachment to his workmen. His days therefore passed in theheart of that little world, so full of respect and gratitude towardshim--a world, which he had, as it were, created after the image of hismind, that he might find there a refuge from the painful realities hedreaded, surrounded with good, intelligent, happy beings, capableof responding to the noble thoughts which had become more and morenecessary to his existence. Thus, after many sorrows, M. Hardy, arrivedat the maturity of age, possessing a sincere friend, a mistress worthyof his love, and knowing himself certain of the passionate devotionof his workmen, had attained, at the period of this history, all thehappiness he could hope for since his mother's death.
M. de Blessac, his bosom friend, had long been worthy of his touchingand fraternal affection; but we have seen by what diabolical meansFather d'Aigrigny and Rodin had succeeded in making M. de Blessac, untilthen upright and sincere, the instrument of their machinations. The twofriends, who had felt on their journey a little of the sharp influenceof the north wind, were warming themselves at a good fire lighted in M.Hardy's parlor.
"Oh! my dear Marcel, I begin really to get old," said M. Hardy, with asmile, addressing M. de Blessac; "I feel more and more the want of beingat home. To depart from my usual habits has become painful to me, and Iexecrate whatever obliges me to leave this happy little spot of ground."
"And when I think," answered M. de Blessac, unable to forbear blushing,"when I think, my friend, that you undertook this long journey only formy sake!--"
"Well, my dear Marcel! have you not just accompanied me in your turn, inan excursion which, without you, would have been as tiresome as it hasbeen charming?"
"What a difference, my friend! I have contracted towards you a debt thatI can never repay."
"Nonsense, my dear Marcel! Between us, there are no distinctions of meumand tuum. Besides, in matters of friendship, it is as sweet to give asto receive."
"Noble heart! noble heart!"
"Say, happy heart!--most happy, in the last affections for which itbeats."
"And who, gracious heaven! could deserve happiness on earth, if it benot you, my friend?"
"And to what do I owe that happiness? To the affections which I foundhere, ready to sustain me, when deprived of the support of my mother,who was all my strength, I felt myself (I confess my weakness) almostincapable of standing up against adversity."
"You, my friend--with so firm and resolute a character in doinggood--you, that I have seen struggle with so much energy and courage, tosecure the triumph of some great and noble idea?"
"Yes; but the farther I advance in my career, the more am I disgustedwith all base and shameful actions, and the less strength I feel toencounter them--"
"Were it necessary, you would have the courage, my friend."
"My dear Marcel," replied M. Hardy, with mild and restrained emotion,"I have often said to you: My courage was my mother. You see, my friend,when I went to her, with my heart torn by some horrible ingratitude,or disgusted by some base deceit, she, taking my hands between her ownvenerable palms, would say to me in her grave and tender voice: 'My dearchild, it is for the ungrateful and dishonest to suffer; let us pity thewicked, let us forget evil, and only think of good.'--Then, my friend,this heart, painfully contracted, expanded beneath the sacred influenceof the maternal words, and every day I gathered strength from her, torecommence on the morrow a cruel struggle with the sad necessities of mycondition. Happily, it has pleased God, that, after losing that belovedmother, I have been able to bind up my life with affections, deprivedof which, I confess, I should find myself feeble and disarmed for youcannot tell, Marcel, the support, the strength that I have found in yourfriendship."
"Do not speak of me, my dear friend," replied M. de Blessac, dissemblinghis embarrassment. "Let us talk of another affection, almost as sweetand tender as that of a mother."
"I understand you, my good Marcel," replied M. Hardy: "I have concealednothing from you since, under such serious circumstances, I had recourseto the counsels of your friendship. Well! yes; I think that every day Ilive augment my adoration for this woman, the only one that I have everpassionately loved, the only one that I shall now ever love. And then Imust tell you, that my mother, not knowing what Margaret was to me, asoften loud in her praise, and that circumstance renders this love almostsacred in my eyes."
"And then there are such strange resemblances between Mme. de Noisy'scharacter and yours, my friend; above all, in her worship of hermother."
"It is true, Marcel; that affection has often caused me both admirationand torment. How often she has said to me, with her habitual frankness:'I have sacrificed all for you, but I would sacrifice you for mymother.'"
"Thank heaven, my friend, you will never see Mme. de Noisy exposed tothat cruel choice. Her mother, you say, has long renounced her intentionof retu
rning to America, where M. de Noisy, perfectly careless ofhis wife, appears to have settled himself permanently. Thanks to thediscreet devotion of the excellent woman by whom Margaret was broughtup, your love is concealed in the deepest mystery. What could disturb itnow?"
"Nothing--oh! nothing," cried M. Hardy. "I have almost security for itsduration."
"What do you mean, my friend?"
"I do not know if I ought to tell you."
"Have you ever found me indiscreet, my friend?"
"You, good Marcel! how can you suppose such a thing?" said M. Hardy, ina tone of friendly reproach; "no! but I do not like to tell you of myhappiness, till it is complete; and I am not yet quite certain--"
A servant entered at this moment and said to M. Hardy: "Sir, there is anold gentleman who wishes to speak to you on very pressing business."
"So soon!" said M. Hardy, with a slight movement of impatience. "Withyour permission, my friend." Then, as M. de Blessac seemed about towithdraw into the next room, M. Hardy added with a smile: "No, no; donot stir. Your presence will shorten the interview."
"But if it be a matter of business, my friend?"
"I do everything openly, as you know." Then, addressing the servant, M.Hardy bade him: "Ask the gentleman to walk in."
"The postilion wishes to know if he is to wait?"
"Certainly: he will take M. de Blessac back to Paris."
The servant withdrew, and presently returned, introducing Rodin, withwhom M. de Blessac was not acquainted, his treacherous bargain havingbeen negotiated through another agent.
"M. Hardy?" said Rodin, bowing respectfully to the two friends, andlooking from one to the other with an air of inquiry.
"That is my name, sir; what can I do to serve you?" answered themanufacturer, kindly; for, at first sight of the humble and ill-dressedold man, he expected an application for assistance.
"M. Francois Hardy," repeated Rodin, as if he wished to make sure of theidentity of the person.
"I have had the honor to tell you that I am he."
"I have a private communication to make to you, sir," said Rodin.
"You may speak, sir. This gentleman is my friend," said M. Hardy,pointing to M. de Blessac.
"But I wish to speak to you alone, sir," resumed Rodin.
M. de Blessac was again about to withdraw, when M. Hardy retained himwith a glance, and said to Rodin kindly, for he thought his feelingsmight be hurt by asking a favor in presence of a third party: "Permitme to inquire if it is on your account or on mine, that you wish thisinterview to be secret?"
"On your account entirely, sir," answered Rodin.
"Then, sir," said M. Hardy, with some surprise, "you may speak out. Ihave no secrets from this gentleman."
After a moment's silence, Rodin resumed, addressing himself to M. Hardy:"Sir, you deserve, I know, all the good that is said of you; and youtherefore command the sympathy of every honest man."
"I hope so, sir."
"Now, as an honest man, I come to render you a service."
"And this service, sir--"
"To reveal to you an infamous piece of treachery, of which you have beenthe victim."
"I think, sir, you must be deceived."
"I have the proofs of what I assert."
"Proofs?"
"The written proofs of the treachery that I come to reveal: I have themhere," answered Rodin "In a word, a man whom you believed your friend,has shamefully deceived you, sir."
"And the name of this man?"
"M. Marcel de Blessac," replied Rodin.
On these words, M. de Blessac started, and became pale as death. Hecould hardly murmur: "Sir--"
But, without looking at his friend, or perceiving his agitation, M.Hardy seized his hand, and exclaimed hastily: "Silence, my friend!"Then, whilst his eye flashed with indignation, he turned towards Rodin,who had not ceased to look him full in the face, and said to him, withan air of lofty disdain: "What! do you accuse M. de Blessac?"
"Yes, I accuse him," replied Rodin, briefly.
"Do you know him?"
"I have never seen him."
"Of what do you accuse him? And how dare you say that he has betrayedme?"
"Two words, if you please," said Rodin, with an emotion which heappeared hardly able to restrain. "If one man of honor sees anotherabout to be slain by an assassin, ought he not give the alarm ofmurder?"
"Yes, sir; but what has that to do--"
"In my eyes, sir, certain treasons are as criminal as murders: I havecome to place myself between the assassin and his victim."
"The assassin? the victim?" said M. Hardy more and more astonished.
"You doubtless know M. de Blessac's writing?" said Rodin.
"Yes, sir."
"Then read this," said Rodin, drawing from his pocket a letter, which hehanded to M. Hardy.
Casting now for the first time a glance at M. de Blessac, themanufacturer drew back a step, terrified at the death-like paleness ofthis man, who, struck dumb with shame, could not find a word to justifyhimself; for he was far from possessing the audacious effronterynecessary to carry him through his treachery.
"Marcel!" cried M. Hardy, in alarm, and deeply agitated by thisunexpected blow. "Marcel! how pale you are! you do not answer!"
"Marcel! this, then, is M. de Blessac?" cried Rodin, feigning the mostpainful surprise. "Oh, sir, if I had known--"
"But don't you hear this man, Marcel?" cried M. Hardy. "He says that youhave betrayed me infamously." He seized the hand of M. de Blessac. Thathand was cold as ice. "Oh, God! Oh God!" said M. Hardy, drawing back inhorror: "he makes no answer!"
"Since I am in presence of M. de Blessac," resumed Rodin, "I am forcedto ask him, if he can deny having addressed many letters to the Rue duMilieu des Ursins, at Paris under cover of M. Rodin."
M. de Blessac remained dumb. M. Hardy, still unwilling to believe whathe saw and heard, convulsively tore open the letter, which Rodin hadjust delivered to him, and read the first few lines--interrupting theperusal with exclamations of grief and amazement. He did not require tofinish the letter, to convince himself of the black treachery of M. deBlessac. He staggered; for a moment his senses seemed to abandon him.The horrible discovery made him giddy, and his head swam on his firstlook down into that abyss of infamy. The loathsome letter dropped fromhis trembling hands. But soon indignation, rage, and scorn succeededthis moment of despair, and rushing, pale and terrible, upon M. deBlessac: "Wretch!" he exclaimed, with a threatening gesture. But,pausing as in the act to strike: "No!" he added, with fearful calmness."It would be to soil my hands."
He turned towards Rodin, who had approached hastily, as if to interpose."It is not worth while chastising a wretch," said M. Hardy; "But I willpress your honest hand, sir--for you have had the courage to unmask atraitor and a coward."
"Sir!" cried M. de Blessac, overcome with shame; "I am at yourorders--and--"
He could not finish. The sound of voices was heard behind the door,which opened violently, and an aged woman entered, in spite of theefforts of the servant, exclaiming in an agitated voice: "I tell you, Imust speak instantly to your master."
On hearing this voice, and at sight of the pale, weeping woman, M.Hardy, forgetting M. de Blessac, Rodin, the infamous treachery, and all,fell back a step, and exclaimed: "Madame Duparc! you here! What is thematter?"
"Oh, sir! a great misfortune--"
"Margaret!" cried M. Hardy, in a tone of despair.
"She is gone, sir!"
"Gone!" repeated M. Hardy, as horror-struck as if a thunderbolt hadfallen at his feet. "Margaret gone!"
"All is discovered. Her mother took her away--three days ago!" said theunhappy woman, in a failing voice.
"Gone! Margaret! It is not true. You deceive me," cried M. Hardy.Refusing to hear more, wild, despairing, he rushed out of the house,threw himself into his carriage, to which the post-horses were stillharnessed, waiting for M. de Blessac, and said to the postilion: "ToParis! as fast as you can go!"
As the carriage
, rapid as lightning, started upon the road to Paris, thewind brought nearer the distant sound of the war-song of the Wolves,who were rushing towards the factory. In this impending destruction, seeRodin's subtle hand, administering his fatal blows to clear his way upto the chair of St. Peter to which he aspired. His tireless, wily coursecan hardly be darker shadowed by aught save that dread coming horrorthe Cholera, whose aid he evoked, and whose health the Bacchanal Queenwildly drank.
That once gay girl, and her poor famished sister; the fair patrician andher Oriental lover; Agricola, the workman, and his veteran father; thesmiling Rose-Pompon, and the prematurely withered Jacques Rennepont;Father d'Aigrigny, the mock priest; and Gabriel, the true disciple;with the rest that have been named and others yet to be pictured, in theblaze of the bolts of their life's paths, will be seen in the third andconcluding part of this romance entitled,
"THE WANDERING JEW: REDEMPTION."
BOOK VIII.
PART THIRD.--THE REDEMPTION.
I. The Wandering Jew's Chastisement II. The Descendants of the Wandering Jew III. The Attack IV. The Wolves and the Devourers V. The Return VI. The Go-Between VII. Another Secret VIII. The Confession IX. Love X. The Execution XI. The Champs-Elysees XII. Behind the Scenes XIII. Up with the Curtain XIV. Death
PART THIRD.--THE REDEMPTION.