'Nonsense, my dear Marcel! Between us, there are no distinctions of meum and tuum. Besides, in matters of friendship, it is as sweet to give as to receive.'
'Noble heart! noble heart!'
'Say, happy heart!—most happy, in the last affections for which it beats.'
'And who, gracious heaven! could deserve happiness on earth, if it be not you, my friend?'
'And to what do I owe that happiness? To the affections which I found here, ready to sustain me, when deprived of the support of my mother, who was all my strength, I felt myself (I confess my weakness) almost incapable of standing up against adversity.'
'You, my friend—with so firm and resolute a character in doing good—you, that I have seen struggle with so much energy and courage, to secure the triumph of some great and noble idea?'
'Yes; but the farther I advance in my career, the more am I disgusted with all base and shameful actions, and the less strength I feel to encounter 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 own venerable palms, would say to me in her grave and tender voice: 'My dear child, it is for the ungrateful and dishonest to suffer; let us pity the wicked, let us forget evil, and only think of good.'—Then, my friend, this heart, painfully contracted, expanded beneath the sacred influence of the maternal words, and every day I gathered strength from her, to recommence on the morrow a cruel struggle with the sad necessities of my condition. Happily, it has pleased God, that, after losing that beloved mother, I have been able to bind up my life with affections, deprived of which, I confess, I should find myself feeble and disarmed for you cannot tell, Marcel, the support, the strength that I have found in your friendship.'
'Do not speak of me, my dear friend,' replied M. de Blessac, dissembling his embarrassment. 'Let us talk of another affection, almost as sweet and tender as that of a mother.'
'I understand you, my good Marcel,' replied M. Hardy: 'I have concealed nothing from you since, under such serious circumstances, I had recourse to the counsels of your friendship. Well! yes; I think that every day I live augment my adoration for this woman, the only one that I have ever passionately loved, the only one that I shall now ever love. And then I must tell you, that my mother, not knowing what Margaret was to me, as often loud in her praise, and that circumstance renders this love almost sacred in my eyes.'
'And then there are such strange resemblances between Mme. de Noisy's character and yours, my friend; above all, in her worship of her mother.'
'It is true, Marcel; that affection has often caused me both admiration and torment. How often she has said to me, with her habitual frankness: 'I have sacrificed all for you, but I would sacrifice you for my mother.''
'Thank heaven, my friend, you will never see Mme. de Noisy exposed to that cruel choice. Her mother, you say, has long renounced her intention of returning to America, where M. de Noisy, perfectly careless of his wife, appears to have settled himself permanently. Thanks to the discreet devotion of the excellent woman by whom Margaret was brought up, your love is concealed in the deepest mystery. What could disturb it now?'
'Nothing—oh! nothing,' cried M. Hardy. 'I have almost security for its duration.'
'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, in a tone of friendly reproach; 'no! but I do not like to tell you of my happiness, 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 an old gentleman who wishes to speak to you on very pressing business.'
'So soon!' said M. Hardy, with a slight movement of impatience. 'With your permission, my friend.' Then, as M. de Blessac seemed about to withdraw into the next room, M. Hardy added with a smile: 'No, no; do not 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, with whom M. de Blessac was not acquainted, his treacherous bargain having been negotiated through another agent.
'M. Hardy?' said Rodin, bowing respectfully to the two friends, and looking from one to the other with an air of inquiry.
'That is my name, sir; what can I do to serve you?' answered the manufacturer, kindly; for, at first sight of the humble and ill-dressed old man, he expected an application for assistance.
'M. Francois Hardy,' repeated Rodin, as if he wished to make sure of the identity 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 him with a glance, and said to Rodin kindly, for he thought his feelings might be hurt by asking a favor in presence of a third party: 'Permit me to inquire if it is on your account or on mine, that you wish this interview to be secret?'
'On your account entirely, sir,' answered Rodin.
'Then, sir,' said M. Hardy, with some surprise, 'you may speak out. I have 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 you therefore 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 been the 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 them here,' 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. He could 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, with an 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 betrayed me?'
'Two words, if you please,' said Rodin, with an emotion which he appeared hardly able to restrain. 'If one man of honor sees another about to be slain by an assassin, ought he not give the alarm of murder?'
'Yes, sir; but what has that to do—'
'In my eyes, sir, certain treasons are as criminal as murders: I have come 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.'
