Then, pausing a moment, Rose-Pompon added: “No, I will not tell

you that; you would be too pleased.” But, after another pause, she

continued: “Well, never mind; I will tell you, though”; and this

singular girl looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with a mixture of sympathy

and deference. “Why should I keep it from you? I began by riding

the high horse, and saying that the prince wished to marry me; and I

finished by confessing that he almost turned me out. Well, it’s not my

fault; when I try to fib, I am sure to get confused. So, madame, this is

the plain truth:--When I met you at poor Mother Bunch’s, I was at first

as angry as a little turkey-cock; but when I heard you, that are such a

fine great lady, speak so kindly to the poor girl, and treat her as your

sister, do what I would, my anger began to go away. Since we have

been here, I have done my utmost to get it up again; but I find it

impossible, and the more I see the difference between us, the more I

perceive that Prince Charming was right in thinking so much of you. For

you must know, madame, that he is over head and ears in love with you.

I don’t say so merely because he killed the panther for you at the

Porte-Saint-Martin; but if you knew all the tricks he played with your

bouquet, and how he will sit up all night weeping in that room where he

saw you for the first time--and then your portrait, that he has

drawn upon glass, after the fashion of his country, and so many other

things--the fact is, that I, who was fond of him, and saw all this was

at first in a great rage; but afterwards it was so touching that it

brought the tears into my eyes. Yes, madame, just as it does now, when

I merely think of the poor prince. Oh, madame!” added Rose-Pompon, her

eyes swimming in tears, and with such an expression of sincere interest,

that Adrienne was much moved by it; “oh, madame, you look so mild and

good, that you will not make this poor prince miserable. Pray love him a

little bit; what can it matter to you?”

So saying, Rose-Pompon, with a perfectly simple, though too familiar,

gesture, took hold of Adrienne’s hand, as if to enforce her request. It

had required great self-command in Mdlle. de Cardoville to repress the

rush of joy that was mounting from her heart to her lips, to check the

torrent of questions which she burned to address to Rose-Pompon, and to

restrain the sweet tears of happiness that for some seconds had trembled

in her eyes; and, strangely enough, when Rose-Pompon took her hand,

Adrienne, instead of withdrawing it, pressed the offered hand almost

affectionately, and led her towards the window, as if to examine her

sweet face more attentively.

On entering the room, the grisette had thrown her bonnet and shawl down

upon the bed, so that Adrienne could admire the thick and silky masses

of light hair that crowned the fresh face of the charming girl, with

its firm, rosy cheeks, its mouth as red as a cherry, and its large blue

laughing eyes; and, thanks to the somewhat scanty dress of Rose-Pompon,

Adrienne could fully appreciate the various graces of her nymph-like

figure. Strange as it may appear, Adrienne was delighted at finding

the girl still prettier than she had at first imagined. The stoical

indifference of Djalma to so attractive a creature was the best proof of

the sincerity of the passion by which he was actuated.

Having taken the hand of Adrienne, Rose-Pompon was herself confused and

surprised at the kindness with which Mdlle. de Cardoville permitted

this familiarity. Emboldened by this indulgence, and by the silence of

Adrienne, who for some moments had been contemplating her with almost

grateful benevolence, the grisette resumed: “Oh, you will not refuse,

madame? You will take pity on this poor prince?”

We cannot tell how Adrienne would have answered this indiscreet question

of Rose-Pompon, for suddenly a loud, wild, shrill, piercing sound,

evidently intended to imitate the crowing of a cock, was heard close to

the door of the room.

Adrienne started in alarm; but the countenance of Rose Pompon, just now

so sad, brightened up joyously at this signal, and, clapping her hands

she exclaimed, “It is Philemon!”

“What--who?” said Adrienne, hastily.

“My lover; oh, the monster! he must have come upstairs on tiptoe, to

take me by surprise with his crowing. Just like him!”

A second cock-a-doodle-doo, still louder than the first, was heard close

to the door. “What a stupid, droll creature it is! Always the same joke,

and yet it always amuses me,” said Rose-Pompon.

And drying her tears with the back of her hand, she began to laugh

like one bewitched at Philemon’s jest, which, though well known to her,

always seemed new and agreeable.

“Do not open the door,” whispered Adrienne, much embarrassed; “do not

answer, I beg of you.”

“Though the door is bolted, the key is on the outside; Philemon can see

that there is some one at home.”

“No matter--do not let him in.”

“But, madame, he lives here; the room belongs to him.”

In fact, Philemon, probably growing tired of the little effect produced

by his two ornithological imitations, turned the key in the lock, and

finding himself unable to open the door, said in a deep bass voice:

“What, dearest puss, have you shut yourself in? Are you praying Saint

Flambard for the return of Philly?” (short for Philemon.)

Adrienne, not coshing to increase, by prolonging it, the awkwardness of

this ridiculous situation, went straight to the door and opened it,

to the great surprise of Philemon, who recoiled two or three steps.

Notwithstanding the annoyance of this incident, Mdlle. de Cardoville

could not help smiling at sight of Rose-Pompon’s lover, and of the

articles he carried in his hand or under his arm.

Philemon was a tall fellow, with dark hair and a very fresh color, and,

being just arrived from a journey, he wore a white cap; his thick, black

beard flowed down on his sky-blue waistcoat; and a short olive-colored

velvet shooting-coat, with extravagantly large plaid trousers, completed

his costume. As for the accessories which had provoked a smile from

Adrienne, they consisted: first, of a portmanteau tucked under his arm,

with the head and neck of a goose protruding from it; secondly, of a

cage held in his hand, with an enormous white rabbit all alive within

it.

“Oh! the darling white rabbit! what pretty red eyes!” Such, it must be

confessed, was the first exclamation of Rose-Pompon, though Philemon,

to whom it was not addressed, had returned after a long absence; but the

student far from being shocked at seeing himself thus sacrificed to his

long-earned companion, smiled complacently, rejoicing at the success of

his attempt to please his mistress.

All this passed very rapidly. While Rose-Pompon, kneeling before the

cage, was still occupied with her admiration of the rabbit, Philemon,

struck with the lofty air of Mdlle. de Cardoville, raised his hand to

his cap, and bowed respectfully as he made way for her to pass. Adrienne

returned his salutation with politeness, full of grace and dignity, and,

lightly descending the stairs, soon disappeared. Dazzled by her beauty,

as well as impressed with her noble and lofty bearing, and curious

to know how in the world Rose-Pompon had fallen in with such an

acquaintance, Philemon said to her, in his amorous jargon: “Dearest

puss! tell her Philly who is that fine lady?”

“One of my school-fellows, you great satyr!” said Rose-Pompon, still

playing with the rabbit.

Then, glancing at a box, which Philemon deposited close to the cage and

the portmanteau, she added: “I’ll wager anything you have brought me

some more preserves!”

“Philly has brought something better to his dear puss,” said the

student, imprinting two vigorous kisses on the rosy cheeks of

Rose-Pompon, who had at length, consented to stand up; “Philly has

brought her his heart.”

“Fudge!” said the grisette, delicately placing the thumb of her left

hand on the tip of her nose, and opening the fingers, which she slightly

moved to and fro. Philemon answered this provocation by putting his arm

around her waist; and then the happy pair shut their door.

CHAPTER XXXVII. SOOTHING WORDS.

During the interview of Adrienne with Rose-Pompon a touching scene took

place between Agricola and Mother Bunch, who had been much surprised

at Mdlle. de Cardoville’s condescension with regard to the grisette.

Immediately after the departure of Adrienne, Agricola had knelt down

beside Mother Bunch, and said to her, with profound emotion: “We are

alone, and I can at length tell you what weighs upon my heart. This act

is too cruel--to die of misery and despair, and not to send to me for

assistance.”

“Listen to me, Agricola--”

“No, there is no excuse for this. What! we called each other by the

names of brother and sister, and for fifteen years gave every proof of

sincere affection--and, when the day of misfortune comes, you quit life

without caring for those you must leave behind--without considering that

to kill yourself is to tell them they are indifferent to you!”

“Forgive me, Agricola! it is true. I had never thought of that,” said

the workgirl, casting down her eyes; “but poverty--want of work--”

“Misery! want of work! and was I not here?”

“And despair!”

“But why despair? This generous young lady had received you in her

house; she knew your worth, and treated you as her friend--and just at

the moment when you had every chance of happiness, you leave the house

abruptly, and we remain in the most horrible anxiety on your account.”

“I feared--to be--to be a burden to my benefactress,” stammered she.

“You a burden to Mdlle. de Cardoville, that is so rich and good!”

“I feared to be indiscreet,” said the sewing-girl, more and more

embarrassed.

Instead of answering his adopted sister, Agricola remained silent, and

contemplated her for some moments with an undefinable expression; then

he exclaimed suddenly, as if replying to a question put by himself: “She

will forgive me for disobeying her.--I am sure of it.”

He next turned towards Mother Bunch, who was looking at him in

astonishment, and said to her in a voice of emotion: “I am too frank

to keep up this deception. I am reproaching you--blaming you--and my

thoughts are quite different.”

“How so, Agricola?”

“My heart aches, when I think of the evil I have done you.”

“I do not understand you, my friend; you have never done me any evil.”

“What! never? even in little things? when, for instance, yielding to a

detestable habit, I, who loved and respected you as my sister, insulted

you a hundred times a day?”

“Insulted me!”

“Yes--when I gave you an odious and ridiculous nickname, instead of

calling you properly.”

At these words, Mother Bunch looked at the smith in the utmost alarm,

trembling lest he had discovered her painful secret, notwithstanding

the assurance she had received from Mdlle. de Cardoville. Yet she calmed

herself a little when she reflected, that Agricola might of himself have

thought of the humiliation inflicted on her by calling her Mother Bunch,

and she answered him with a forced smile. “Can you be grieved at so

small a thing? It was a habit, Agricola, from childhood. When did your

good and affectionate mother, who nevertheless loved me as her daughter,

ever call me anything else?”

“And did my mother consult you about my marriage, speak to you of the

rare beauty of my bride, beg you to come and see her, and study her

character, in the hope that the instinct of your affection for me would

warn you--if I made a bad choice? Did my mother have this cruelty?--No;

it was I, who thus pierced your heart!”

The fears of the hearer were again aroused; there could be but little

doubt that Agricola knew her secret. She felt herself sinking with

confusion; yet, making a last effort not to believe the discovery, she

murmured in a feeble voice: “True, Agricola! It was not your mother, but

yourself, who made me that request--and I was grateful to you for such a

mark of confidence.”

“Grateful, my poor girl!” cried the smith, whilst his eyes filled

with tears; “no, it is not true. I pained you fearfully--I was

merciless--heaven knows, without being aware of it!”

“But,” said the other, in a voice now almost unintelligible, “what makes

you think so?”

“Your love for me!” cried the smith, trembling with emotion, as he

clasped Mother Bunch in a brotherly embrace.

“Oh heaven!” murmured the unfortunate creature, as she covered her face

with her hands, “he knows all.”

“Yes, I know all,” resumed Agricola, with an expression of ineffable

tenderness and respect: “yes, I know all, and I will not have you blush

for a sentiment, which honors me, and of which I feel so justly proud.

Yes, I know all; and I say to myself with joy and pride, that the best,

the most noble heart in the world is mine--will be mine always. Come,

Magdalen; let us leave shame to evil passions. Raise your eyes, and look

at me! You know, if my countenance was ever false--if it ever reflected

a feigned emotion. Then look and tell me, if you cannot read in my

features, how proud I am, Magdalen, how justly proud of your love!”

Overwhelmed with grief and confusion, Mother Bunch had not dared to look

on Agricola; but his words expressed so deep a conviction, the tones of

his voice revealed so tender an emotion, that the poor creature felt her

shame gradually diminish, particularly when Agricola added, with rising

animation: “Be satisfied, my sweet, my noble Magdalen; I will be worthy

of this love. Believe me, it shall yet cause you as much happiness as it

has occasioned tears. Why should this love be a motive for estrangement,

confusion, fear? For what is love, in the sense in which it is held

by your generous heart? Is it not a continual exchange of devotion,

tenderness, esteem, of mutual and blind confidence?--Why, Magdalen!

we may have all this for one another--devotion, tenderness,

confidence--even more than in times past; for, on a thousand occasions,

your secret inspired you with fear and suspicion--while, for the future,

on the contrary, you will see me take such delight in the place I fill

in your good and valiant heart, that you will be happy in the happiness

you bestow. What I have just said may seem very selfish and conceited;

so much the worse! I do not know how to lie.”

The longer the smith spoke, the less troubled became Mother Bunch. What

she had above all feared in the discovery of her secret was to see it

received with raillery, contempt, or humiliating compassion; far from

this, joy and happiness were distinctly visible on the manly and

honest face of Agricola. The hunchback knew him incapable of deception;

therefore she exclaimed, this time without shame or confusion, but

rather with a sort of pride.

“Every sincere and pure passion is so far good and con soling as to end

by deserving interest and sympathy, when it has triumphed over its first

excess! It is alike honorable to the heart which feels and that which

inspires it!--Thanks to you, Agricola--thanks to the kind words, which

have raised me in my own esteem--I feel that, instead of blushing, I

ought to be proud of this love. My benefactress is right--you are right:

why should I be ashamed of it? Is it not a true and sacred love? To be

near you, to love you, to tell you so, to prove it by constant devotion,

what did I ever desire more? And yet shame and fear, joined with that

dizziness of the brain which extreme misery produces, drove me to

suicide!--But then some allowance must be made for the suspicions of a

poor creature, who has been the subject of ridicule from her cradle.

So my secret was to die with me, unless some unforeseen accident should

reveal it to you; and, in that case, you are right--sure of myself, sure

of you, I ought to have feared nothing. But I may claim some indulgence;

mistrust, cruel mistrust of one’s self makes one doubt others also. Let

us forget all that. Agricola, my generous brother, I will say to you,

as you said to me just now, ‘Look at me; you know my countenance cannot

lie. Look at me: see if I shun your gaze; see if, ever in my life, I

looked so happy’--and yet, even now, I was about to die!”

She spoke the truth. Agricola himself could not have hoped so prompt an

effect from his words. In spite of the deep traces which misery, grief,

and sickness had imprinted on the girl’s features, they now shone with

radiant happiness and serenity, whilst her blue eyes, gentle and pure as

her soul, were fixed, without embarrassment, on those of Agricola.

“Oh! thanks, thanks!” cried the smith, in a rapture of delight: “when I

see you so calm, and so happy, Magdalen, I am indeed grateful.”

“Yes, I am calm, I am happy,” replied she; “and happy I shall be, for

I can now tell you my most secret thoughts. Yes, happy; for this day,

which began so fatally, ends like a divine dream. Far from being afraid,

I now look at you with hope and joy. I have again found my generous

benefactress, and I am tranquil as to the fate of my poor sister.

Oh! shall we not soon see her? I should like her to take part in this

happiness.”

She seemed so happy, that the smith did not dare to inform her of the

death of Cephyse, and reserved himself to communicate the same at a

more fitting opportunity. Therefore he answered: “Cephyse, being the

stronger, has been the more shaken; it will not be prudent, I am told,

to see her to-day.”

“I will wait then. I can repress my impatience, I have so much to say to

you.”

“Dear, gentle Magdalen!”

“Oh, my friend!” cried the girl, interrupting Agricola, with tears of

joy: “I cannot tell you what I feel, when I hear you call me Magdalen.

It is so sweet, so soothing, that my heart expands with delight.”

“Poor girl! how dreadfully she must have suffered!” cried the smith,

with inexpressible emotion, “when she displays so much happiness, so

much gratitude, at being called by her own poor name!”

“But consider, my friend; that word in your mouth contains a new life

for me. If you only knew what hopes, what pleasures I can now see

gleaming in the future! If you knew all the cherished longings of my

tenderness! Your wife, the charming Angela, with her angel face and

angel-soul--oh! in my turn, I can say to, you, ‘Look at me, and see how

sweet that name is to my lips and heart!’ Yes, your charming, your

good Angela will call me Magdalen--and your children, Agricola,

your children!--dear little creatures!--to them also I shall be

Magdalen--their good Magdalen--and the love I shall bear them will make

them mine, as well as their mother’s--and I shall have my part in

every maternal care--and they will belong to us three; will they not,

Agricola?--Oh! let me, let me weep! These tears without bitterness do me

so much good; they are tears that need not be concealed. Thank heaven!

thank you, my friend! those other tears are I trust dried forever.”

For some seconds, this affecting scene had been overlooked by an

invisible witness. The smith and Mother Bunch had not perceived Mdlle.

de Cardoville standing on the threshold of the door. As Mother Bunch

had said, this day, which dawned with all under such fatal auspices, had

become for all a day of ineffable felicity. Adrienne, too, was full of

joy, for Djalma had been faithful to her, Djalma loved her with passion.

The odious appearances, of which she had been the dupe and victim,

evidently formed part of a new plot of Rodin, and it only remained for

Mdlle. de Cardoville to discover the end of these machinations.

Another joy was reserved for her. The happy are quick in detecting

happiness in others, and Adrienne guessed, by the hunchback’s last

words, that there was no longer any secret between the smith and the

sempstress. She could not therefore help exclaiming, as she entered:

“Oh! this will be the brightest day of my life, for I shall not be happy

alone!”

Agricola and Mother Bunch turned round hastily. “Lady,” said the smith,

“in spite of the promise I made you, I could not conceal from Magdalen

that I knew she loved me!”

“Now that I no longer blush for this love before Agricola, why should I

blush for it before you, lady, that told me to be proud of it, because

it is noble and pure?” said Mother Bunch, to whom her happiness gave

strength enough to rise, and to lean upon Agricola’s arm.

“It is well, my friend,” said Adrienne, as she threw her arms round her

to support her; “only one word, to excuse the indiscretion with which

you will perhaps reproach me. If I told your secret to M. Agricola--”

“Do you know why it was, Magdalen?” cried the smith, interrupting

Adrienne. “It was only another proof of the lady’s delicate generosity.

‘I long hesitate to confide to you this secret,’ said she to me this

morning, ‘but I have at length made up my mind to it. We shall probably

find your adopted sister; you have been to her the best of brothers:

but many times, without knowing it, you have wounded her feelings

cruelly--and now that you know her secret, I trust in your kind heart to

keep it faithfully, and so spare the poor child a thousand pangs--pangs

the more bitter, because they come from you, and are suffered in

silence. Hence, when you speak to her of your wife, your domestic

happiness, take care not to gall that noble and tender heart.’--Yes,

Magdalen, these were the reasons that led the lady to commit what she

called an indiscretion.”

“I want words to thank you now and ever,” said Mother Bunch.

“See, my friend,” replied Adrienne, “how often the designs of the wicked

turn against themselves. They feared your devotion to me, and therefore

employed that unhappy Florine to steal your journal--”

“So as to drive me from your house with shame, lady, When I supposed my

most secret thoughts an object of ridicule to all. There can be no doubt

such was their plan,” said Mother Bunch.

“None, my child. Well! this horrible wickedness, which nearly caused

your death, now turns to the confusion of the criminals. Their plot is

discovered--and, luckily, many other of their designs,” said Adrienne,

as she thought of Rose-Pompon.

Then she resumed, with heartfelt joy: “At last, we are again united,

happier than ever, and in our very happiness we shall find new resources

to combat our enemies. I say our enemies--for all that love me are

odious to these wretches. But courage, the hour is come, and the good

people will have their turn.”

“Thank heaven, lady,” said the smith; “or my part, I shall not be

wanting in zeal. What delight to strip them of their mask!”

“Let me remind you, M. Baudoin, that you have an appointment for to

morrow with M. Hardy.”

“I have not forgotten it, lady, any more than the generous offers I am

to convey to him.”

“That is nothing. He belongs to my family. Tell him (what indeed I

shall write to him this evening), that the funds necessary to reopen his

factory are at his disposal; I do not say so for his sake only, but for

that of a hundred families reduced to want. Beg him to quit immediately

the fatal abode to which they have taken him: for a thousand reasons he

should be on his guard against all that surround him.”

“Be satisfied, lady. The letter he wrote to me in reply to the one I got

secretly delivered to him, was short, affectionate, sad--but he grants

me the interview I had asked for, and I am sure I shall be able to

persuade him to leave that melancholy dwelling, and perhaps to depart

with me, he has always had so much confidence in my attachment.”

“Well, M. Baudoin, courage!” said Adrienne, as she threw her cloak over

the workgirl’s shoulders, and wrapped her round with care. “Let us be

gone, for it is late. As soon as we get home, I will give you a letter

for M. Hardy, and to-morrow you will come and tell me the result of your

visit. No, not to-morrow,” she added, blushing slightly. “Write to me

to-morrow, and the day after, about twelve, come to me.”

Some minutes later, the young sempstress, supported by Agricola and

Adrienne, had descended the stairs of that gloomy house, and, being

placed in the carriage by the side of Mdlle. de Cardoville, she

earnestly entreated to be allowed to see Cephyse; it was in vain that

Agricola assured her it was impossible, and that she should see her the

next day. Thanks to the information derived from Rose-Pompon, Mdlle. de

Cardoville was reasonably suspicious of all those who surrounded Djalma,

and she therefore took measures, that, very evening, to have a letter

delivered to the prince by what she considered a sure hand.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE TWO CARRIAGES.

It is the evening of the day on which Mdlle. de Cardoville prevented the

sewing-girl’s suicide. It strikes eleven; the night is dark; the

wind blows with violence, and drives along great black clouds, which

completely hide the pale lustre of the moon. A hackney-coach, drawn by

two broken-winded horses, ascends slowly and with difficulty the slope

of the Rue Blanche, which is pretty steep near the barrier, in the part

where is situated the house occupied by Djalma.

The coach stops. The coachman, cursing the length of an interminable

drive “within the circuit,” leading at last to this difficult ascent,

turns round on his box, leans over towards the front window of the

vehicle, and says in a gruff tone to the person he is driving: “Come!

are we almost there? From the Rue de Vaugirard to the Barriere Blanche,

is a pretty good stretch, I think, without reckoning that the night

is so dark, that one can hardly see two steps before one--and the

street-lamps not lighted because of the moon, which doesn’t shine, after

all!”

“Look out for a little door with a portico-drive on about twenty yards

beyond--and then stop close to the wall,” answered a squeaking voice,

impatiently, and with an Italian accent.

“Here is a beggarly Dutchman, that will make me as savage as a bear?”

muttered the angry Jehu to himself. Then he added: “Thousand thunders!

I tell you that I can’t see. How the devil can I find out your little

door?”

“Have you no sense? Follow the wall to the right, brush against it, and

you will easily find the little door. It is next to No. 50. If you do

not find it, you must be drunk,” answered the Italian, with increased

bitterness.

The coachman only replied by swearing like a trooper, and whipping up

his jaded horses. Then, keeping close to the wall, he strained his eyes

in trying to read the numbers of the houses, by the aid of his carriage

lamps.

After some moments, the coach again stopped. “I have passed No. 50, and

here is a little door with a portico,” said the coachman. “Is that the

one?”

“Yes,” said the voice. “Now go forward some twenty yards, and then

stop.”

“Well! I never--”

“Then get down from your box, and give twice three knocks at the little

door we have just passed--you understand me?--twice three knocks.”

“Is that all you give me to drink?” cried the exasperated coachman.

“When you have taken me back to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, where I

live, you shall have something handsome, if you do but manage matters

well.”

“Ha! now the Faubourg Saint-Germain! Only that little bit of distance!”

said the driver, with repressed rage. “And I who have winded my horses,

wanted to be on the boulevard by the time the play was out. Well,

I’m blowed!” Then, putting a good face on his bad luck, and consoling

himself with the thought of the promised drink-money, he resumed: “I am

to give twice three knocks at the little door?”

“Yes; three knocks first--then pause--then three other knocks. Do you

understand?”

“What next?”

“Tell the person who comes, that he is waited for, and bring him here to

the coach.”

“The devil burn you!” said the coachman to himself, as he turned round

on the box, and whipped up his horses, adding: “this crusty old Dutchman

has something to do with Free-masons, or, perhaps, smugglers, seeing we

are so near the gates. He deserves my giving him in charge, for bringing

me all the way from the Rue de Vaugirard.”

At twenty steps beyond the little door, the coach again stopped, and the

coachman descended from the box to execute the orders he had received.

Going to the little door, he knocked three times; then paused, as he had

been desired, and then knocked three times more. The clouds, which had

hitherto been so thick as entirely to conceal the disk of the moon, just

then withdrew sufficiently to afford a glimmering light, so that when

the door opened at the signal, the coachman saw a middle-sized person

issue from it, wrapped in a cloak, and wearing a colored cap.

This man carefully locked the door, and then advanced two steps into the

street. “They are waiting for you,” said the coachman; “I am to take you

along with me to the coach.”

Preceding the man with the cloak, who only answered him by a nod, he led

him to the coach-door, which he was about to open, and to let down the

step, when the voice exclaimed from the inside: “It is not necessary.

The gentleman may talk to me through the window. I will call you when it

is time to start.”

“Which means that I shall be kept here long enough to send you to all

the devils!” murmured the driver. “However, I may as well walk about,

just to stretch my legs.”

So saying, he began to walk up and down, by the side of the wall in

which was the little door. Presently he heard the distant sound of

wheels, which soon came nearer and nearer, and a carriage, rapidly

ascending the slope, stopped on the other side of the little

garden-door.

“Come, I say! a private carriage!” said the coachman. “Good horses

those, to come up the Rue Blanche at a trot.”

The coachman was just making this observation, when, by favor of a

momentary gleam of light, he saw a man step from the carriage, advance

rapidly to the little door, open it, and go in, closing it after him.

“It gets thicker and thicker!” said the coachman. “One comes out, and

the other goes in.”

So saying, he walked up to the carriage. It was splendidly harnessed,

and drawn by two handsome and vigorous horses. The driver sat

motionless, in his great box-coat, with the handle of his whip resting

on his right knee.

“Here’s weather to drive about in, with such tidy dukes as yours,

comrade!” said the humble hackney-coachman to this automaton, who

remained mute and impassible, without even appearing to know that he was

spoken to.

“He doesn’t understand French--he’s an Englishman. One could tell that

by his horses,” said the coachman, putting this interpretation on the

silence of his brother whip. Then, perceiving a tall footman at a little

distance, dressed in a long gray livery coat, with blue collar and

silver buttons, the coachman addressed himself to him, by way of

compensation, but without much varying his phrase: “Here’s nice weather

to stand about in, comrade!” On the part of the footman, he was met with

the same imperturbable silence.

“They’re both Englishmen,” resumed the coachman, philosophically;

and, though somewhat astonished at the incident of the little door, he

recommenced his walk in the direction of his own vehicle.

While these facts were passing, the man in the cloak, and the man with

the Italian accent continued their conversation, the one still in the

coach, and the other leaning with his hand on the door. It had already

lasted for some time, and was carried on in Italian. They were evidently

talking of some absent person, as will appear from the following.

“So,” said the voice from the coach, “that is agreed to?”

“Yes, my lord,” answered the man in the cloak; “but only in case the

eagle should become a serpent.”

“And, in the contrary event, you will receive the other half of the

ivory crucifix I gave you.”

“I shall know what it means, my lord.”

“Continue to merit and preserve his confidence.”

“I will merit and preserve it, my lord, because I admire and respect

this man, who is stronger than the strongest, by craft, and courage, and

will. I have knelt before him with humility, as I would kneel before one

of the three black idols that stand between Bowanee and her worshippers;

for his religion, like mine, teaches to change life into nothingness.”

“Humph!” said the voice, in a tone of some embarrassment; “these

comparisons are useless and inaccurate. Only think of obeying him,

without explaining your obedience.”

“Let him speak, and I perform his will! I am in his hands like a corpse,

as he himself expresses it. He has seen, he sees every day, my devotion

to his interests with regard to Prince Djalma. He has only to say: ‘Kill

him!’ and this son of a king--”

“For heaven’s salve, do not have such ideas!” cried the voice,

interrupting the man in the cloak. “Thank heaven, you will never be

asked for such proofs of your submission.”

“What I am ordered I do. Bowanee sees me.”

“I do not doubt your zeal. I know that you are a loving and intelligent

barrier, placed between the prince and many guilty interests; and it is

because I have heard of that zeal, of your skill in circumventing this

young Indian, and, above all, of the motives of your blind devotion,

that I have wished to inform you of everything. You are the fanatical

worshipper of him you serve. That is well; man should be the obedient

slave of the god he chooses for himself.”

“Yes, my lord; so long as the god remains a god.”

“We understand each other perfectly. As for your recompense, you know

what I have promised.”

“My lord, I have my reward already.”

“How so?”

“I know what I know.”

“Very well. Then as for secrecy--”

“You have securities, my lord.”

“Yes--and sufficient ones.”

“The interest of the cause I serve, my lord, would alone be enough to

secure my zeal and discretion.”

“True; you are a man of firm and ardent convictions.”

“I strive to be so, my lord.”

“And, after all, a very religious man in your way. It is very

praiseworthy, in these irreligious times, to have any views at all on

such matters--particularly when those views will just enable me to count

upon your aid.”

“You may count upon it, my lord, for the same reason that the intrepid

hunter prefers a jackal to ten foxes, a tiger to ten jackals, a lion to

ten tigers, and the welmiss to ten lions.”

“What is the welmiss?”

“It is what spirit is to matter, the blade to the scabbard, the perfume

to the flower, the head to the body.”

“I understand. There never was a more just comparison. You are a man of

sound judgment. Always recollect what you have just told me, and make

yourself more and more worthy of the confidence of--your idol.”

“Will he soon be in a state to hear me, my lord?”

“In two or three days, at most. Yesterday a providential crisis saved

his life; and he is endowed with so energetic a will, that his cure will

be very rapid.”

“Shall you see him again to-morrow, my lord?”

“Yes, before my departure, to bid him farewell.”

“Then tell him a strange circumstance, of which I have not been able to

inform him, but which happened yesterday.”

“What was it?”

“I had gone to the garden of the dead. I saw funerals everywhere, and

lighted torches, in the midst of the black night, shining upon tombs.

Bowanee smiled in her ebon sky. As I thought of that divinity of

destruction, I beheld with joy the dead-cart emptied of its coffins.

The immense pit yawned like the mouth of hell; corpses were heaped

upon corpses, and still it yawned the same. Suddenly, by the light of a

torch, I saw an old man beside me. He wept. I had seen him before. He is

a Jew--the keeper of the house in the Rue Saint-Francois--you know what

I mean.” Here the man in the cloak started.

“Yes, I know; but what is the matter? why do you stop short?”

“Because in that house there has been for a hundred and fifty years the

portrait of a man whom I once met in the centre of India, on the banks

of the Ganges.” And the man in the cloak again paused and shuddered.

“A singular resemblance, no doubt.”

“Yes, my lord, a singular resemblance--nothing more.”

“But the Jew--the old Jew?”

“I am coming to that, my lord. Still weeping, he said to a gravedigger,

‘Well! and the coffin?’ ‘You were right,’ answered the man; ‘I found it

in the second row of the other grave. It had the figure of a cross on

it, formed by seven black nails. But how could you know the place and

the mark?’ ‘Alas! it is no matter,’ replied the old Jew, with bitter

melancholy. ‘You see that I was but too well informed on the subject.

But where is the coffin?’ ‘Behind the great tomb of black marble; I have

hidden it there. So make haste; for, in the confusion, nothing will be

noticed. You have paid me well, and I wish you to succeed in what you

require.’”

“And what did the old Jew do with the coffin marked with the seven black

nails?”

“Two men accompanied him, my lord, bearing a covered litter, with

curtains drawn round it. He lighted a lantern, and, followed by these

two men, went towards the place pointed out by the gravedigger. A

stoppage, occasioned by the dead-carts, made me lose sight of the old

Jew, whom I was following amongst the tombs. Afterwards I was unable to

find him.”

“It is indeed a strange affair. What could this old Jew want with the

coffin?”

“It is said, my lord, that they use dead bodies in preparing their magic

charms.”

“Those unbelievers are capable of anything--even of holding

communication with the Enemy of mankind. However, we will look after

this: the discovery may be of importance.”

At this instant a clock struck twelve in the distance.

“Midnight! already?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I must be gone. Good-bye--but for the last time swear to me that,

should matters so turn out, as soon as you receive the other half of the

ivory crucifix I have just given you, you will keep your promise.”

“I have sworn it by Bowanee, my lord.”

“Don’t forget that, to make all sure, the person who will deliver to you

the other half of the crucifix is to say--come, what is he to say?”

“He is to say, my lord: ‘There is many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the

lip.’”

“Very well. Adieu! secrecy and fidelity!”

“Secrecy and fidelity, my lord,” answered the man in the cloak.

Some seconds after the hackney-coach started, carrying with it Cardinal

Malipieri, one of the speakers in the above dialogue. The other, whom

the reader has no doubt recognized as Faringhea, returned to the little

garden-door of the house occupied by Djalma. At the moment he

was putting the key into the lock, the door opened, to his great

astonishment, and a man came forth. Faringhea rushed upon the unknown,

seized him violently by the collar, and exclaimed: “Who are you? whence

came you?”

The stranger evidently found the tone of this question anything but

satisfactory; for, instead of answering, he struggled to disengage

himself from Faringhea’s hold, and cried out, in a loud voice: “Help!

Peter!”

Instantly the carriage, which had been standing a few yards off, dashed

up at full speed, and Peter, the tall footman, seizing the half-breed by

the shoulders, flung him back several paces, and thus made a seasonable

diversion in favor of the unknown.

“Now, sir,” said the latter to Faringhea, shaking himself, and still

protected by the gigantic footman, “I am in a state to answer your

questions, though you certainly have a very rough way of receiving an

old acquaintance. I am Dupont, ex-bailiff of the estate of Cardoville,

and it was I who helped to fish you out of the water, when the ship was

wrecked in which you had embarked.”

By the light of the carriage-lamps, indeed, the half-caste

recognized the good, honest face of Dupont, formerly bailiff, and now

house-steward, to Mdlle. de Cardoville. It must not be forgotten that

Dupont had been the first to write to Mdlle. de Cardoville, to ask her

to interest herself for Djalma, who was then detained at Cardoville

Castle by the injuries he had received during the shipwreck.

“But, sir, what is your business here? Why do you introduce yourself

clandestinely into this house?” said Faringhea, in an abrupt and

suspicious tone.

“I will--just observe to you that there is nothing clandestine in the

matter. I came here in a carriage, with servants in the livery of my

excellent mistress, Mdlle. de Cardoville, charged by her, without any

disguise or mystery, to deliver a letter to Prince Djalma, her cousin,”

replied Dupont, with dignity.

On these words, Faringhea trembled with mute rage, as he answered: “And

why, sir, come at this late hour, and introduce yourself by this little

door?”

“I came at this hour, my dear sir, because such was Mdlle. de

Cardoville’s command, and I entered by this little gate because there is

every reason to believe that if I had gone around to the other I should

not have been permitted to see the prince.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” replied the half-caste.

“It is possible: but as we knew that the prince usually passed a good

portion of the night in the little saloon, which communicates with the

greenhouse, and as Mdlle. de Cardoville had kept a duplicate key of this

door, I was pretty certain, by taking this course, to be able to deliver

into the prince’s own hands the letter from Mdlle. de Cardoville, his

cousin, which I have now had the honor of doing, my dear sir; and I have

been deeply touched by the kindness with which the prince deigned to

receive me and to remember our last interview.”

“And who kept you so well informed, sir, of the prince’s habits?” said

Faringhea, unable to control his vexation.

“If I have been well informed as to his habits, my dear sir, I have had

no such correct knowledge of yours,” answered Dupont, with a mocking

air; “for I assure you that I had no more notion of seeing you than you

had of seeing me.”

So saying, M. Dupont bowed with something like mock politeness to the

half-caste, and got into the carriage, which drove off rapidly, leaving

Faringhea in a state of the utmost surprise and anger.

CHAPTER XXXIX. THE APPOINTMENT.

The morning after--Dupont’s mission to Prince Djalma, the latter was

walking with hasty and impatient step up and down the little saloon,

which communicated, as we already know, with the greenhouse from which

Adrienne had entered when she first appeared to him. In remembrance of

that day, he had chosen to dress himself as on the occasion in question;

he wore the same tunic of white cashmere, with a cherry-colored turban,

to match with his girdle; his gaiters, of scarlet velvet, embroidered

with silver, displayed the fine form of his leg, and terminated in small

white morocco slippers, with red heels. Happiness has so instantaneous,

and, as it were, material an influence upon young, lively, and ardent

natures, that Djalma, dejected and despairing only the day before,

was no longer like the same person. The pale, transparent gold of his

complexion was no longer tarnished by a livid hue. His large eyes, of

late obscured like black diamonds by a humid vapor, now shone with mild

radiance in the centre of their pearly setting; his lips, long pale,

had recovered their natural color, which was rich and soft as the fine

purple flowers of his country.

Ever and anon, pausing in his hasty walk, he stopped suddenly, and

drew from his bosom a little piece of paper, carefully folded, which he

pressed to his lips with enthusiastic ardor. Then, unable to restrain

the expression of his full happiness, he uttered a full and sonorous

cry of joy, and with a bound he was in front of the plate-glass which

separated the saloon from the conservatory, in which he had first seen

Mdlle. de Cardoville. By a singular power of remembrance, or marvellous

hallucination of a mind possessed by a fixed idea, Djalma had often

seen, or fancied he saw, the adored semblance of Adrienne appear to him

through this sheet of crystal. The illusion had been so complete, that,

with his eyes ardently fixed on the vision he invoked, he had been able,

with the aid of a pencil dipped in carmine, to trace with astonishing

exactness, the profile of the ideal countenance which the delirium

of his imagination had presented to his view.(42) It was before

these delicate lines of bright carmine that Djalma now stood in deep

contemplation, after perusing and reperusing, and raising twenty times

to his lips, the letter he had received the night before from the hands

of Dupont. Djalma was not alone. Faringhea watched all the movements

of the prince, with a subtle, attentive, and gloomy aspect. Standing

respectfully in a corner of the saloon, the half-caste appeared to be

occupied in unfolding and spreading out Djalma’s sash, light, silky

Indian web, the brown ground of which was almost entirely concealed by

the exquisite gold and silver embroidery with which it was overlaid.

The countenance of the half-caste wore a dark and gloomy expression.

He could not deceive himself. The letter from Mdlle. de Cardoville,

delivered by Dupont to Djalma, must have been the cause of the delight

he now experienced, for, without doubt, he knew himself beloved. In that

event, his obstinate silence towards Faringhea, ever since the latter

had entered the saloon, greatly alarmed the half-caste, who could not

tell what interpretation to put upon it. The night before, after parting

with Dupont, he had hastened, in a state of anxiety easily understood,

to look for the prince, in the hope of ascertaining the effect produced

by Mdlle. de Cardoville’s letter. But he found the parlor door closed,

and when he knocked, he received no answer from within. Then, though the

night was far advanced, he had dispatched a note to Rodin, in which he

informed him of Dupont’s visit and its probable intention. Djalma had

indeed passed the night in a tumult of happiness and hope, and a fever

of impatience quite impossible to describe. Repairing to his bed-chamber

only towards the morning, he had taken a few moments of repose, and had

then dressed himself without assistance.

Many times, but in vain, the half-caste had discreetly knocked at

the door of Djalma’s apartment. It was only in the early part of the

afternoon that the prince had rung the bell to order his carriage to be

ready by half-past two. Faringhea having presented himself, the prince

had given him the order without looking at him, as he might have done to

any other of his servants. Was this suspicion, aversion, or mere absence

of mind on the part of Djalma? Such were the questions which the half

caste put to himself with growing anguish; for the designs of which he

was the most active and immediate instrument might all be ruined by the

least suspicion in the prince.

“Oh! the hours--the hours--how slow they are!” cried the young Indian,

suddenly, in a low and trembling voice.

“The day before yesterday, my lord, you said the hours were very long,”

observed Faringhea, as he drew near Djalma in order to attract his

attention. Seeing that he did not succeed in this he advanced a few

steps nearer, and resumed: “Your joy seems very great, my lord; tell the

cause of it to your poor and faithful servant, that he also may rejoice

with you.”

If he heard the words, Djalma did not pay any attention to them. He made

no answer, and his large black eyes gazed upon vacancy. He seemed to

smile admiringly upon some enchanting vision, and he folded his two

hands upon his bosom, in the attitude which his countrymen assume at

the hour of prayer. After some instants of contemplation, he said: “What

o’clock is it?”--but he asked this question of himself, rather than of

any third person.

“It will soon be two o’clock, my lord,” said Faringhea.

Having heard this answer, Djalma seated himself, and hid his face in his

hands, as if completely absorbed in some ineffable meditation. Urged on

by his growing anxiety, and wishing at any cost to attract the attention

of Djalma, Faringhea approached still nearer to him, and, almost certain

of the effect of the words he was about to utter, said to him in a slow

and emphatic voice: “My lord, I am sure that you owe the happiness which

now transports you to Mdlle. de Cardoville.”

Hardly had this name been pronounced, than Djalma started from his

chair, looked the half-breed full in the face, and exclaimed, as if only

just aware of his presence, “Faringhea! you here!--what is the matter?”

“Your faithful servant shares in your joy, my lord.”

“What joy?”

“That which the letter of Mdlle. de Cardoville has occasioned, my lord.”

Djalma returned no answer, but his eye shone with so much serene

happiness, that the half-caste recovered from his apprehensions. No

cloud of doubt or suspicion obscured the radiant features of the prince.

After a few moments of silence, Djalma fixed upon the half-caste a look

half-veiled with a tear of joy, and said to him, with the expression of

one whose heart overflows with love and happiness: “Oh! such delight is

good--great--like heaven!--for it is heaven which--”

“You deserve this happiness, my lord, after so many sufferings.”

“What sufferings?--Oh! yes. I formerly suffered at Java; but that was

years ago.”

“My lord, this great good fortune does not astonish me. What have I

always told you? Do not despair; feign a violent passion for some other

woman, and then this proud young lady--”

At these words Djalma looked at the half-caste with so piercing a

glance, that the latter stopped short; but the prince said to him with

affectionate goodness, “Go on! I listen.”

Then, leaning his chin upon his hand, and his elbow on his knee, he

gazed so intently on Faringhea, and yet with such unutterable mildness,

that even that iron soul was touched for a moment with a slight feeling

of remorse.

“I was saying, my lord,” he resumed, “that by following the counsels of

your faithful slave, who persuaded you to feign a passionate love for

another woman, you have brought the proud Mdlle. de Cardoville to come

to you. Did I not tell you it would be so?”

“Yes, you did tell me so,” answered Djalma, still maintaining the same

position, and examining the half-caste with the same fixed and mild

attention.

The surprise of Faringhea increased; generally, the prince, without

treating him with the least harshness, preserved the somewhat distant

and imperious manners of their common country, and he had never before

spoken to him with such extreme mildness. Knowing all the evil he

had done the prince, and suspicious as the wicked must ever be, the

half-caste thought for a moment, that his master’s apparent kindness

might conceal a snare. He continued, therefore, with less assurance,

“Believe me, my lord, this day, if you do but know how to profit by your

advantages, will console you for all your troubles, which have indeed

been great--for only yesterday, though you were generous enough to

forget it, only yesterday you suffered cruelly--but you were not alone

in your sufferings. This proud young lady suffered also!”

“Do you think so?” said Djalma.

“Oh! it is quite sure, my lord. What must she not have felt, when she

saw you at the theatre with another woman!--If she loved you only a

little, she must have been deeply wounded in her self-esteem; if she

loved you with passion, she must have been struck to the heart. At

length, you see, wearied out with suffering, she has come to you.”

“So that, any way, she must have suffered--and that does not move your

pity?” said Djalma, in a constrained, but still very mild voice.

“Before thinking of others, my lord, I think of your distresses; and

they touch me too nearly to leave me any pity for other woes,” added

Faringhea hypocritically, so greatly had the influence of Rodin already

modified the character of the Phansegar.

“It is strange!” said Djalma, speaking to himself, as he viewed the half

caste with a glance still kind but piercing.

“What is strange, my lord?”

“Nothing. But tell me, since your advice has hitherto prospered so well,

what think you of the future?”

“Of the future, my lord?”

“Yes; in an hour I shall be with Mdlle. de Cardoville.”

“That is a serious matter, my lord. The whole future will depend upon

this interview.”

“That is what I was just thinking.”

“Believe me, my lord, women never love any so well, as the bold man who

spares them the embarrassment of a refusal.”

“Explain more fully.”

“Well, my lord, they despise the timid and languishing lover, who asks

humbly for what he might take by force.”

“But to-day I shall meet Mdlle. de Cardoville for the first time.”

“You have met her a thousand times in your dreams, my lord; and depend

upon it, she has seen you also in her dreams, since she loves you. Every

one of your amorous thoughts has found an echo in her heart. All your

ardent adorations have been responded to by her. Love has not two

languages, and, without meeting, you have said all that you had to say

to each other. Now, it is for you to act as her master, and she will be

yours entirely.”

“It is strange--very strange!” said Djalma, a second time, without

removing his eyes from Faringhea’s face.

Mistaking the sense which the prince attached to these words, the half

caste resumed: “Believe me, my lord, however strange it may appear, this

is the wisest course. Remember the past. Was it by playing the part of a

timid lover that you have brought to your feet this proud young lady,

my lord? No, it was by pretending to despise her, in favor of another

woman. Therefore, let us have no weakness. The lion does not woo like

the poor turtle-dove. What cares the sultan of the desert for a few

plaintive howls from the lioness, who is more pleased than angry at his

rude and wild caresses? Soon submissive, fearful and happy, she follows

in the track of her master. Believe me, my lord--try everything--dare

everything--and to-day you will become the adored sultan of this young

lady, whose beauty all Paris admires.”

After some minutes’ silence, Djalma, shaking his head with an expression

of tender pity, said to the half-caste, in his mild, sonorous voice:

“Why betray me thus? Why advise me thus wickedly to use violence,

terror, and surprise, towards an angel of purity, whom I respect as

my mother? Is it not enough for you to have been so long devoted to my

enemies, whose hatred has followed me from Java?”

Had Djalma sprung upon the half-caste with bloodshot eye, menacing

brow, and lifted poniard, the latter would have been less surprised,

and perhaps less frightened, than when he heard the prince speak of his

treachery in this tone of mild reproach.

He drew back hastily, as if about to stand on his guard. But Djalma

resumed, with the same gentleness, “Fear nothing. Yesterday I should

have killed you! But to-day happy love renders me too just, too merciful

for that. I pity you, without any feeling of bitterness--for you must

have been very unhappy, or you could not have become so wicked.”

“My lord!” said the half-caste, with growing amazement.

“Yes, you must have suffered much, and met with little mercy, poor

creature, to have become so merciless, in your hate, and proof against

the sight of a happiness like mine. When I listened to you just now,

and saw the sad perseverance of your hatred, I felt the deepest

commiseration for you.”

“I do not know, my lord--but--” stammered the half-caste, and was unable

to find words to proceed.

“Come, now--what harm have I ever done you?”

“None, my lord,” answered Faringhea.

“Then why do you hate me thus? why pursue me with so much animosity? Was

it not enough to give me the perfidious counsel to feign a shameful love

for the young girl that was brought hither, and who quitted the house

disgusted at the miserable part she was to play?”

“Your feigned love for that young girl, my lord,” replied Faringhea,

gradually recovering his presence of mind, “conquered the coldness of--”

“Do not say that,” resumed the prince, interrupting him with the same

mildness. “If I enjoy this happiness, which makes me compassionate

towards you, and raises me above myself, it is because Mdlle de

Cardoville now knows that I have never for a moment ceased to love her

as she ought to be loved, with adoration and reverence. It was your

intention to have parted us forever, and you had nearly succeeded.”

“If you think this of me, my lord, you must look upon me as your most

mortal enemy.”

“Fear nothing, I tell you. I have no right to blame you. In the madness

of my grief, I listened to you and followed your advice. I was not only

your dupe, but your accomplice. Only confess that, when you saw me at

your mercy, dejected, crushed, despairing, it was cruel in you to advise

the course that might have been most fatal to me.”

“The ardor of my zeal may have deceived me, my lord.”

“I am willing to believe it. And yet again to-day there were the same

evil counsels. You had no more pity for my happiness than for my sorrow.

The rapture of my heart inspires you with only one desire--that of

changing this rapture into despair.”

“I, my lord!”

“Yes, you. It was your intention to ruin me--to dishonor me forever in

the eyes of Mdlle. de Cardoville. Now, tell me--why this furious hate?

what have I done to you?”

“You misjudge me, my lord--and--”

“Listen to me. I do not wish you to be any longer wicked and

treacherous. I wish to make you good. In our country, they charm

serpents, and tame the wildest tigers. You are a man, with a mind to

reason, a heart to love, and I will tame you too by gentleness. This day

has bestowed on me divine happiness; you shall have good cause to bless

this day. What can I do for you? what would you have--gold? You shall

have it. Do you desire more than gold? Do you desire a friend, to

console you for the sorrows that made you wicked, and to teach you to

be good? Though a king’s son, I will be that friend--in spite of the

evil--ay, because of the evil you have done me. Yes; I will be your

sincere friend, and it shall be my delight to say to myself: ‘The day

on which I learned that my angel loved me, my happiness was great

indeed--for, in the morning, I had an implacable enemy, and, ere night,

his hatred was changed to friendship.’ Believe me, Faringhea, misery

makes crime, but happiness produces virtue. Be happy!”

At this moment the clock struck two. The prince started. It was time to

go on his visit to Adrienne. The handsome countenance of Djalma, doubly

embellished by the mild, ineffable expression with which it had been

animated whilst he was talking to the half-caste, now seemed illumined

with almost divine radiance.

Approaching Faringhea, he extended his hand with the utmost, grace and

courtesy, saying to him, “Your hand!”

The half-caste, whose brow was bathed with a cold sweat, whose

countenance was pale and agitated, seemed to hesitate for an instant;

then, overawed, conquered, fascinated, he offered his trembling hand to

the prince, who pressed it, and said to him, in their country’s fashion,

“You have laid your hand honestly in a friend’s; this hand shall never

be closed against you. Faringhea, farewell! I now feel myself more

worthy to kneel before my angel.”

And Djalma went out, on his way to the appointment with Adrienne. In

spite of his ferocity, in spite of the pitiless hate he bore to the

whole human race, the dark sectary of Bowanee was staggered by the noble

and clement words of Djalma, and said to himself, with terror, “I have

taken his hand. He is now sacred for me.”

Then, after a moment’s silence, a thought occurred to him, and he

exclaimed, “Yes--but he will not be sacred for him who, according to the

answer of last night, waits for him at the door of the house.”

So saying, the half-caste hastened into the next room, which looked upon

the street, and, raising a corner of the curtain, muttered anxiously to

himself, “The carriage moves off--the man approaches. Perdition! it is

gone and I see no more.”

CHAPTER XL. ANXIETY.

By a singular coincidence of ideas, Adrienne, like Djalma, had wished

to be dressed exactly in the same costume as at their interview in

the house in the Rue Blanche. For the site of this solemn meeting, so

important to her future happiness, Adrienne had chosen, with habitual

tact, the grand drawing-room of Cardoville House, in which hung many

family portraits. The most apparent were those of her father and mother.

The room was large and lofty, and furnished, like those which preceded

it, with all the imposing splendor of the age of Louis XIV. The ceiling,

painted by Lebrun, to represent the Triumph of Apollo, displayed his

bold designing and vigorous coloring, in the centre of a wide cornice,

magnificently carved and gilt, and supported at its angles by four

large gilt figures, representing the Seasons. Huge panels, covered

with crimson damask, and set in frames, served as the background to the

family portraits which adorned this apartment. It is easier to conceive

than describe the thousand conflicting emotions which agitated the bosom

of Mdlle. de Cardoville as the moment approached for her interview with

Djalma. Their meeting had been hitherto prevented by so many painful

obstacles, and Adrienne was so well aware of the vigilant and active

perfidy of her enemies, that even now she doubted of her happiness.

Every instant, in spite of herself, her eyes wandered to the clock.

A few minutes more, and the hour of the appointment would strike.

It struck at last. Every reverberation was echoed from the depth of

Adrienne’s heart. She considered that Djalma’s modest reserve had,

doubtless, prevented his coming before the moment fixed by herself. Far

from blaming this discretion, she fully appreciated it. But, from that

moment, at the least noise in the adjoining apartments, she held her

breath and listened with the anxiety of expectation.

For the first few minutes which followed the hour at which she expected

Djalma, Mdlle. de Cardoville felt no serious apprehension, and calmed

her impatience by the notion (which appears childish enough to those who

have never known the feverish agitation of waiting for a happy meeting),

that perhaps the clocks in the Rue Blanche might vary a little from

those in the Rue d’Anjou. But when this supposed variation, conceivable

enough in itself, could no longer explain a delay of a quarter of an

hour, of twenty minutes, of more, Adrienne felt her anxiety gradually

increase. Two or three times the young girl rose, with palpitating

heart, and went on tip-toe to listen at the door of the saloon. She

heard nothing. The clock struck half-past three.

Unable to suppress her growing terror, and clinging to a last hope,

Adrienne returned towards the fireplace and rang the bell. After which

she endeavored to compose her features, so as to betray no outward sign

of emotion. In a few seconds, a gray-haired footman, dressed in black,

opened the door, and waited in respectful silence for the orders of his

mistress. The latter said to him, in a calm voice, “Andrew, request Hebe

to give you the smelling bottle that I left on the chimney-piece in my

room, and bring it me here.” Andrew bowed; but just as he was about

to withdraw to execute Adrienne’s orders, which was only a pretext to

enable her to ask a question without appearing to attach much importance

to it in her servant’s eyes, already informed of the expected visit of

the prince, Mdlle. de Cardoville added, with an air of indifference.

“Pray, is that clock right?”

Andrew drew out his watch, and replied as he cast his eyes upon it,

“Yes, mademoiselle. I set my watch by the Tuileries. It is more than

half past three.”

“Very well--thank you!” said Adrienne kindly.

Andrew again bowed; but, before going out, he said to Adrienne, “I

forgot to tell you, lady, that Marshal Simon called about an hour ago;

but, as you were only to be at home to Prince Djalma, we told him that

you received no company.”

“Very well,” said Adrienne. With another low bow, Andrew quitted the

room, and all returned to silence.

For the precise reason that, up to the last minute of the hour previous

to the time fixed for her interview with Djalma, the hopes of

Adrienne had not been disturbed by the slightest shadow of doubt, the

disappointment she now felt was the more dreadful. Casting a desponding

look at one of the portraits placed above her, she murmured, with a

plaintive and despairing accent, “Oh, mother!”

Hardly had Mdlle. de Cardoville uttered the words than the windows were

slightly shaken by a carriage rolling into the courtyard. The young lady

started, and was unable to repress a low cry of joy. Her heart bounded

at the thought of meeting Djalma, for this time she felt that he was

really come. She was quite as certain of it as if she had seen him.

She resumed her seat and brushed away a tear suspended from her long

eyelashes. Her hand trembled like a leaf. The sound of several doors

opening and shutting proved that the young lady was right in her

conjecture. The gilded panels of the drawing-room door soon turned upon

their hinges, and the prince appeared.

While a second footman ushered in Djalma, Andrew placed on a gilded

table, within reach of his mistress, a little silver salver, on which

stood the crystal smelling-bottle. Then he withdrew, and the door of

the room was closed. The prince and Mdlle. de Cardoville were left alone

together.

CHAPTER XLI. ADRIENNE AND DJALMA.

The prince had slowly approached Mdlle. de Cardoville. Notwithstanding

the impetuosity of the Oriental’s passions, his uncertain and timid

step--timid, yet graceful--betrayed his profound emotion. He did not

venture to lift his eyes to Adrienne’s face; he had suddenly become very

pale, and his finely formed hands, folded over his bosom in the attitude

of adoration, trembled violently. With head bent down, he remained

standing at a little distance from Adrienne. This embarrassment,

ridiculous in any other person, appeared touching in this prince of

twenty years of age, endowed with an almost fabulous intrepidity, and of

so heroic and generous a character, that no traveller could speak of

the son of Kadja sing without a tribute of admiration and respect. Sweet

emotion! chaste reserve! doubly interesting if we consider that the

burning passions of this youth were all the more inflammable, because

they had hitherto been held in check.

No less embarrassed than her cousin, Adrienne de Cardoville remained

seated. Like Djalma, she cast down her eyes; but the burning blush on

her cheeks, the quick heaving of her virgin bosom, revealed an emotion

that she did not even attempt to hide. Notwithstanding the powers of her

mind, by turns gay, graceful, and witty--notwithstanding the decision of

her proud and independent character, and her complete acquaintance with

the manners of the world--Adrienne shared Djalma’s simple and enchanting

awkwardness, and partook of that kind of temporary weakness, beneath

which these two pure, ardent, and loving beings appeared sinking--as if

unable to support the boiling agitation of the senses, combined with the

intoxicating excitement of the heart. And yet their eyes had not met.

Each seemed to fear the first electric shock of the other’s glance--that

invincible attraction of two impassioned beings--that sacred fire, which

suddenly kindles the blood, and lifts two mortals from earth to heaven;

for it is to approach the Divinity to give one’s self up with religious

fervor to the most noble and irresistible sentiment that He has

implanted within us--the only sentiment that, in His adorable wisdom,

the Dispenser of all good has vouchsafed to sanctify, by endowing it

with a spark of His own creative energy.

Djalma was the first to raise his eyes. They were moist and sparkling.

The excitement of passionate love, the burning ardor of his age, so long

repressed, the intense admiration in which he held ideal beauty, were

all expressed in his look, mingled with respectful timidity, and gave

to the countenance of this youth an undefinable, irresistible character.

Yes, irresistible!--for, when Adrienne encountered his glance, she

trembled in every limb, and felt herself attracted by a magnetic power.

Already, her eyes were heavy with a kind of intoxicating languor, when,

by a great effort of will and dignity, she succeeded in overcoming

this delicious confusion, rose from her chair, and said to Djalma in

a trembling voice: “Prince, I am happy to receive you here.” Then,

pointing to one of the portraits suspended above her, she added, as if

introducing him to a living person: “Prince--my mother!”

With an instinct of rare delicacy, Adrienne had thus summoned her mother

to be present at her interview with Djalma. It seemed a security

for herself and the prince, against the seductions of a first

interview--which was likely to be all the more perilous, that they both

knew themselves madly loved that they both were free, and had only to

answer to Providence for the treasures of happiness and enjoyment

with which He had so magnificently endowed them. The prince understood

Adrienne’s thoughts; so that, when the young lady pointed to the

portrait, Djalma, by a spontaneous movement full of grace and

simplicity, knelt down before the picture, and said to it in a gentle,

but manly voice: “I will love and revere you as my mother. And, in

thought, my mother too shall be present, and stand like you, beside your

child!”

No better answer could have been given to the feeling which induced

Mdlle. de Cardoville to place herself, as it were, under the protection

of her mother. From that moment, confident in Djalma, confident in

herself, the young lady felt more at her ease, and the delicious sense

of happiness replaced those exciting emotions, which had at first so

violently agitated her.

Then, seating herself once more, she said to Djalma, as she pointed to

the opposite chair: “Pray take a seat, my dear cousin; and allow me to

call you so, for there is too much ceremony in the word prince; and

do you call me cousin also, for I find other names too grave. Having

settled this point, we can talk together like old friends.”

“Yes cousin,” answered Djalma, blushing.

“And, as frankness is proper between friends,” resumed Adrienne, “I have

first to make you a reproach,” she added, with a half-smile.

The prince had remained standing, with his arm resting on the chimney

piece, in an attitude full of grace and respect.

“Yes, cousin,” continued Adrienne, “a reproach, that you will perhaps

forgive me for making. I had expected you a little sooner.”

“Perhaps, cousin, you may blame me for having come so soon.”

“What do you mean?”

“At the moment when I left home, a man, whom I did not know, approached

my carriage, and said to me, with such an air of sincerity that I

believed him: ‘You are able to save the life of a person who has been a

second father to you. Marshal Simon is in great danger, and, to rescue

him, you must follow me on the instant--’”

“It was a snare,” cried Adrienne, hastily. “Marshal Simon was here,

scarcely an hour ago.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Djalma, joyfully, and as if he had been relieved

from a great weight. “Then there will be nothing to sadden this happy

day!”

“But, cousin,” resumed Adrienne, “how came you not to suspect this

emissary?”

“Some words, which afterwards escaped from him, inspired me with

doubts,” answered Djalma: “but at first I followed him, fearing the

marshal might be in danger--for I know that he also has enemies.”

“Now that I reflect on it, you were quite right, cousin, for some new

plot against the marshal was probable enough; and the least doubt was

enough to induce you to go to him.”

“I did so--even though you were waiting for me.”

“It was a generous sacrifice; and my esteem for you is increased by it,

if it could be increased,” said Adrienne, with emotion. “But what became

of this man?”

“At my desire, he got into the carriage with me. Anxious about the

marshal, and in despair at seeing the time wasted, that I was to have

passed with you, cousin, I pressed him with all sorts of questions.

Several times, he replied to me with embarrassment, and then the idea

struck me that the whole might be a snare. Remembering all that they had

already attempted, to ruin me in your opinion, I immediately changed

my course. The vexation of the man who accompanied me then because so

visible, that I ought to have had no doubt upon the subject. Still, when

I thought of Marshal Simon, I felt a kind of vague remorse, which you,

cousin, have now happily set at rest.”

“Those people are implacable!” said Adrienne; “but our happiness will be

stronger than their hate.”

After a moment’s silence, she resumed, with her habitual frankness: “My

dear cousin, it is impossible for me to conceal what I have at heart.

Let us talk for a few seconds of the past, which was made so painful to

us, and then we will forget it forever, like an evil dream.”

“I will answer you sincerely, at the risk of injuring myself,” said the

prince.

“How could you make up your mind to exhibit yourself in public with--?”

“With that young girl?” interrupted Djalma.

“Yes, cousin,” replied Mdlle. de Cardoville, and she waited for Djalma’s

answer with anxious curiosity.

“A stranger to the customs of this country,” said Djalma, without

any embarrassment, for he spoke the truth, “with a mind weakened

with despair, and misled by the fatal counsels of a man devoted to my

enemies, I believed, even as I was told, that, by displaying before

you the semblance of another love, I should excite your jealousy, and

thus--”

“Enough, cousin; I understand it all,” said Adrienne hastily,

interrupting Djalma in her turn, that she might spare him a painful

confession. “I too must have been blinded by despair, not to have

seen through this wicked plot, especially after your rash and intrepid

action. To risk death for the sake of my bouquet!” added Adrienne,

shuddering at the mere remembrance. “But one last question,” she

resumed, “though I am already sure of your answer. Did you receive a

letter that I wrote to you, on the morning of the day in which I saw you

at the theatre?”

Djalma made no reply. A dark cloud passed over his fine countenance,

and, for a second, his features assumed so menacing an expression, that

Adrienne was terrified at the effect produced by her words. But this

violent agitation soon passed away, and Djalma’s brow became once more

calm and serene.

“I have been more merciful that I thought,” said the prince to Adrienne,

who looked at him with astonishment. “I wished to come hither worthy of

you, my cousin. I pardoned the man who, to serve my enemies, had given

me all those fatal counsels. The same person, I am sure, must have

intercepted your letter. Just now, at the memory of the evils he thus

caused me, I, for a moment, regretted my clemency. But then, again, I

thought of your letter of yesterday--and my anger is all gone.”

“Then the sad time of fear and suspicion is over--suspicion, that made

me doubt of your sentiments, and you of mine. Oh, yes! far removed from

us be that fatal past!” cried Adrienne de Cardoville, with deep joy..

Then, as if she had relieved her heart from the last thought of sadness,

she continued: “The future is all your own--the radiant future, without

cloud or obstacle, pure in the immensity of its horizon, and extending

beyond the reach of sight!”

It is impossible to describe the tone of enthusiastic hope which

accompanied these words. But suddenly Adrienne’s features assumed an

expression of touching melancholy, and she added, in a voice of profound

emotion: “And yet--at this hour--so many unfortunate creatures suffer

pain!”

This simple touch of pity for the misfortunes of others, at the

moment when the noble maiden herself attained to the highest point of

happiness, had such an effect on Djalma, that involuntarily he fell

on his knees before Adrienne, clasped his hands together, and turned

towards her his fine countenance, with an almost daring expression.

Then, hiding his face in his hands, he bowed his head without speaking a

single word. There was a moment of deep silence. Adrienne was the first

to break it, as she saw a tear steal through the slender fingers of the

prince.

“My friend! what is the matter?” she exclaimed, as with a movement rapid

as thought, she stooped forward, and taking hold of Djalma’s hands, drew

them from before his face. That face was bathed in tears.

“You weep!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, so much agitated that she kept

the hands of Djalma in her own; and, unable to dry his tears, the young

Hindoo allowed them to flow like so many drops of crystal over the pale

gold of his cheeks.

“There is not in this wide world a happiness like to mine!” said the

prince, in his soft, melodious voice, and with a kind of exhaustion:

“therefore do I feel great sadness, and so it should be. You give me

heaven--and were I to give you the whole earth, it would be but a poor

return. Alas! what can man do for a divinity, but humbly bless and

adore? He can never hope to return the gifts bestowed: and this makes

him suffer--not in his pride--but in his heart!”

Djalma did not exaggerate. He said what he really felt: and the rather

hyperbolical form, familiar to Oriental nations, could alone express his

thought. The tone of his regret was so sincere, his humility so gentle

and full of simplicity, that Adrienne, also moved to tears, answered him

with an effusion of serious tenderness, “My friend, we are both at

the supreme point of happiness. Our future felicity appears to have no

limits, and yet, though derived from different sources, sad reflections

have come to both of us. It is, you see, that there are some sorts of

happiness, which make you dizzy with their own immensity. For a moment,

the heart, the mind, the soul, are incapable of containing so much

bliss; it overflows and drowns us. Thus the flowers sometimes hang their

heads, oppressed by the too ardent rays of the sun, which is yet their

love and life. Oh, my friend! this sadness may be great, but it also

sweet!”

As she uttered these words, the voice of Adrienne grew fainter and

fainter, and her head bowed lower, as if she were indeed sinking beneath

the weight of her happiness. Djalma had remained kneeling before her,

his hands in hers--so that as she thus bent forward, her ivory forehead

and golden hair touched the amber-colored brow and ebon curls of Djalma.

And the sweet, silent tears of the two young lovers flowed together, and

mingled as they fell on their clasped hands.

Whilst this scene was passing in Cardoville House, Agricola had gone to

the Rue de Vaugirard, to deliver a letter from Adrienne to M. Hardy.

CHAPTER XLII. “THE IMITATION.”

As we have already said, M. Hardy occupied a pavilion in the “Retreat”

annexed to the house in the Rue de Vaugirard, inhabited by a goodly

number of the reverend fathers of the Company of Jesus. Nothing could be

calmer and more silent than this dwelling. Every one spoke in whispers,

and the servants themselves had something oily in their words, something

sanctified in their very walk.

Like all that is subject to the chilling and destructive influences of

these men, this mournfully quiet house was entirely wanting in life

and animation. The boarders passed an existence of wearisome and icy

monotony, only broken by the use of certain devotional exercises;

and thus, in accordance with the selfish calculation of the reverend

fathers, the mind, deprived of all nourishment and all external support,

soon began to droop and pine away in solitude. The heart seemed to beat

more slowly, the soul was benumbed, the character weakened; at last,

all freewill, all power of discrimination, was extinguished, and the

boarders, submitting to the same process of self-annihilation as the

novices of the Company, became, like them, mere “corpses” in the hands

of the brotherhood.

The object of these manoeuvres was clear and simple. They secured the

means of obtaining all kinds of donations, the constant aim of the

skillful policy and merciless cupidity of these priests. By the aid of

enormous sums, of which they thus become the possessors or the trustees,

they follow out and obtain the success of their projects, even though

murder, incendiarism, revolt, and all the horrors of civil war, excited

by and through them, should drench in blood the lands over which they

seek to extend their dark dominion.

Such, then, was the asylum of peace and innocence in which Francois

Hardy had taken refuge. He occupied the ground-floor of a summer-house,

which opened upon a portion of the garden. His apartments had been

judiciously chosen, for we know with what profound and diabolical craft

the reverend fathers avail themselves of material influences, to make

a deep impression upon the minds they are moulding to their purpose.

Imagine a prospect bounded by a high wall, of a blackish gray,

half-covered with ivy, the plant peculiar to ruins. A dark avenue of

old yew-trees, so fit to shade the grave with their sepulchral verdure,

extended from this wall to a little semicircle, in front of the

apartment generally occupied by M. Hardy. Two or three mounds of earth,

bordered with box, symmetrically cut, completed the charms of this

garden, which in every respect resembled a cemetery.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon. Though the April sun shone

brightly, its rays, intercepted by the high wall of which we have

spoken, could not penetrate into that portion of the garden, obscure,

damp, and cold as a cavern, which communicated with M. Hardy’s

apartment. The room was furnished with a perfect sense of the

comfortable. A soft carpet covered the floor; thick curtains of dark

green baize, the same color as the walls, sheltered an excellent bed,

and hung in folds about the glass door, which opened on the garden. Some

pieces of mahogany furniture, plain, but very clean and bright, stood

round the room. Above the secretary, placed just in front of the

bed, was a large ivory crucifix, upon a black velvet ground. The

chimney-piece was adorned with a clock, in an ebony case, with

ivory ornaments representing all sorts of gloomy emblems, such as

hour-glasses, scythes, death’s-heads, etc. Now imagine this scene in

twilight, with its solitary and mournful silence, only broken at the

hour of prayer by the lugubrious sound of the bells of the neighboring

chapel, and you will recognize the infernal skill, with which these

dangerous priests know how to turn to account every external object,

when they wish to influence the mind of those they are anxious to gain

over.

And this was not all. After appealing to the senses, it was necessary to

address themselves to the intellect--and this was the method adopted by

the reverend fathers. A single book--but one--was left, as if by chance,

within reach. This book was Thomas a Kempis’ “Imitation.” But as it

might happen that M. Hardy would not have the courage or the desire to

read this book, thoughts and reflections borrowed from its merciless

pages, and written in very large characters, were suspended in black

frames close to the bed, or at other parts within sight, so that,

involuntarily, in the sad leisure of his inactive dejection, the

dweller’s eyes were almost necessarily attracted by them. To that fatal

circle of despairing thoughts they confined the already weakened mind of

this unfortunate man, so long a prey to the most acute sorrow. What

he read mechanically, every instant of the day and night, whenever the

blessed sleep fled from his eyes inflamed with tears, was not enough

merely to plunge the soul of the victim into incurable despair, but also

to reduce him to the corpse-like obedience required by the Society of

Jesus. In that awful book may be found a thousand terrors to operate

on weak minds, a thousand slavish maxims to chain and degrade the

pusillanimous soul.

And now imagine M. Hardy carried wounded into this house; while his

heart, torn by bitter grief and the sense of horrible treachery, bled

even faster than his external injuries. Attended with the utmost care,

and thanks to the acknowledged skill of Dr. Baleinier, M. Hardy soon

recovered from the hurts he had received when he threw himself into the

embers of his burning factory. Yet, in order to favor the projects

of the reverend fathers, a drug, harmless enough in its effects, but

destined to act for a time upon the mind of the patient, and often

employed for that purpose in similar important cases by the pious

doctor, was administered to Hardy, and had kept him pretty long in

a state of mental torpor. To a soul agonized by cruel deceptions, it

appears an inestimable benefit to be plunged into that kind of torpor,

which at least prevents one from dwelling upon the past.

Hardy resigned himself entirely to this profound apathy, and at length

came to regard it as the supreme good. Thus do unfortunate wretches,

tortured by cruel diseases, accept with gratitude the opiate which kills

them slowly, but which at least deadens the sense of pain.

In sketching the portrait of M. Hardy, we tried to give some idea of

the exquisite delicacy of his tender soul, of his painful susceptibility

with regard to anything base or wicked, and of his extreme goodness,

uprightness, and generosity. We now allude to these admirable qualities,

because we must observe, that with him, as with almost all who possess

them, they were not, and could not be, united with an energetic and

resolute character. Admirably persevering in good deeds, the influence

of this excellent man, was insinuating rather than commanding; it was

not by the bold energy and somewhat overbearing will, peculiar to other

men of great and noble heart, that Hardy had realized the prodigy of his

Common Dwelling-house; it was by affectionate persuasion, for with him

mildness took the place of force. At sight of any baseness or injustice,

he did not rouse himself, furious and threatening; but he suffered

intense pain. He did not boldly attack the criminal, but he turned

away from him in pity and sorrow. And then his loving heart, so full of

feminine delicacy, had an irresistible longing for the blessed contact

of dear affections; they alone could keep it alive. Even as a poor,

frail bird dies with the cold, when it can no longer lie close to its

brethren, and receive and communicate the sweet warmth of the maternal

nest. And now this sensitive organization, this extremely susceptible

nature, receives blow after blow from sorrows and deceptions, one of

which would suffice to shake, if it did not conquer, the firmest and

most resolute character. Hardy’s best friend has infamously betrayed

him. His adored mistress has abandoned him.

The house which he had founded for the benefit of his workmen, whom he

loved as brethren, is reduced to a heap of ashes. What then happens? All

the springs of his soul are at once broken. Too feeble to resist

such frightful attacks, too fatally deceived to seek refuge in other

affections, too much discouraged to think of laying the first stone

of any new edifice--this poor heart, isolated from every salutary

influence, finds oblivion of the world and of itself in a kind of gloomy

torpor. And if some remaining instincts of life and affection, at

long intervals, endeavored to rouse themselves within him, and if,

half-opening his mind’s eye, which he had kept closed against the

present, the past, and the future, Hardy looks around him--what does he

see? Only these sentences, so full of terrible despair:

“Thou art nothing but dust and ashes. Grief and tears art thy portion.

Believe not in any son of man. There are no such things as friendship or

ties of kindred. All human affections are false. Die in the morning, and

thou wilt be forgotten before night. Be humble--despise thyself--and

let others despise thee. Think not, reason not, live not--but commit

thy fate to the hands of a superior, who will think and reason for thee.

Weep, suffer, think upon death. Yes, death! always death--that should

be thy thought when thou thinkest--but it is better not to think at all.

Let a feeling of ceaseless woe prepare thy way to heaven. It is only by

sorrow that we are welcome to the terrible God whom we adore!”

Such were the consolations offered to this unfortunate man. Affrighted,

he again closed his eyes, and fell back into his lethargy. As for

leaving this gloomy retreat, he could not, or rather he did not desire

to do so. He had lost the power of will; and then, it must be confessed,

he had finished by getting accustomed to this house, and liked it

well--they paid him such discreet attentions, and yet left him so

much alone with his grief--there reigned all around such a death-like

silence, which harmonized closely with the silence of his heart; and

that was now the tomb of his last love, last friendship, last hope.

All energy was dead within him! Then began that slow, but inevitable

transformation, so judiciously foreseen by Rodin, who directed the whole

of this machination, even in its smallest details. At first alarmed

by the dreadful maxims which surrounded him, M. Hardy had at length

accustomed himself to read them over almost mechanically, just as the

captive, in his mournful hours of leisure, counts the nails in the door

of his prison, or the bars of the grated window. This was already a

great point gained by the reverend fathers.

And soon his weakened mind was struck with the apparent correctness of

these false and melancholy aphorisms.

Thus he read: “Do not count upon the affection of any human

creature”--and he had himself been shamefully betrayed.

“Man is born to sorrow and despair”--and he was himself despairing.

“There is no rest save in the cessation of thought”--and the slumber of

his mind had brought some relief to his pain.

Peepholes, skillfully concealed by the hangings and in the wainscoting

of these apartments, enabled the reverend fathers at all times to see

and hear the boarders, and above all to observe their countenance and

manner, when they believed themselves to be alone. Every exclamation of

grief which escaped Hardy in his gloomy solitude, was repeated to Father

d’Aigrigny by a mysterious listener. The reverend father, following

scrupulously Rodin’s instructions, had at first visited his boarder very

rarely. We have said, that when Father d’Aigrigny wished it, he could

display an almost irresistible power of charming, and accordingly he

threw all his tact and skill into the interviews he had with Hardy,

when he came from time to time to inquire after his health. Informed of

everything by his spies, and aided by his natural sagacity, he soon saw

all the use that might be made of the physical and moral prostration of

the boarder. Certain beforehand that Hardy would not take the hint,

he spoke to him frequently of the gloom of the house, advising him

affectionately to leave it, if he felt oppressed by its monotony, or at

all events to seek beyond its walls for some pleasure and amusement.

To speak of pleasure and amusement to this unfortunate man, was in his

present state to insure a refusal, and so it of course happened. Father

d’Aigrigny did not at first try to gain the recluse’s confidence, nor

did he speak to him of sorrow; but every time he came, he appeared to

take such a tender interest in him, and showed it by a few simple and

well timed words. By degrees, these interviews, at first so rare, became

more frequent and longer. Endowed with a flow of honeyed, insinuating,

and persuasive eloquence, Father d’Aigrigny naturally took for his

theme those gloomy maxims, to which Hardy’s attention was now so often

directed.

Supple, prudent, skillful, knowing that the hermit had hitherto

professed that generous natural religion which teaches the grateful

adoration of God, the love of humanity, the worship of what is just and

good, and which, disdaining dogmas, professes the same veneration for

Marcus Aurelius as for Confucius, for Plato as for Christ, for Moses as

for Lycurgus--Father d’Aigrigny did not at first attempt to convert

him, but began by incessantly reminding him of the abominable deceptions

practised upon him; and, instead of describing such treachery as an

exception in life--instead of trying to calm, encourage, and revive

his drooping soul--instead of exhorting Hardy to seek oblivion and

consolation in the discharge of his duties toward humanity, towards his

brethren, whom he had previously loved and succored--Father d’Aigrigny

strove to inflame the bleeding wounds of the unfortunate man, painted

the human race in the most atrocious blackness, and, by declaring all

men treacherous, ungrateful, wicked, succeeded in rendering his despair

incurable. Having attained this object, the Jesuit took another step.

Knowing Hardy’s admirable goodness of heart, and profiting by the

weakened state of his mind, he spoke to him of the consolation to be

derived by a man overwhelmed with sorrow, from the belief that every one

of his tears, instead of being unfruitful, was in fact agreeable to God,

and might aid in the salvation of souls--the belief, as the reverend

father adroitly added, that by faith alone can sorrow be made useful to

humanity, and acceptable to Divinity.

Whatever impiety, whatever atrocious Machiavelism there was in these

detestable maxims, which make of a loving-kind Deity a being delighted

with the tears of his creatures, was thus skillfully concealed from

Hardy’s eyes, whose generous instincts were still alive. Soon did this

loving and tender soul, whom unworthy priests were driving to a sort of

moral suicide, find a mournful charm in the fiction, that his sorrows

would at least be profitable to other men. It was at first only a

fiction; but the enfeebled mind which takes pleasure in such a fable,

finishes by receiving it as a reality, and by degrees will submit to the

consequences. Such was Hardy’s moral and physical state, when, by means

of a servant who had been bought over, he received from Agricola Baudoin

a letter requesting an interview. Alone, the workman could not have

broken the band of the Jesuit’s pleadings, but he was accompanied by

Gabriel, whose eloquence and reasonings were of a most convincing nature

to a spirit like Hardy’s.

It is unnecessary to point out to the reader, with what dignified

reserve Gabriel had confined himself to the most generous means of

rescuing Hardy from the deadly influence of the reverend fathers. It

was repugnant to the great soul of the young missionary, to stoop to

a revelation of the odious plots of these priests. He would only have

taken this extreme course, had his powerful and sympathetic words have

failed to have any effect on Hardy’s blindness. About a quarter of an

hour had elapsed since Gabriel’s departure, when the servant appointed

to wait on this boarder of the reverend fathers entered and delivered to

him a letter.

“From whom is this?” asked Hardy.

“From a boarder in the house, sir,” answered the servant bowing.

This man had a crafty hypocritical face; he wore his hair combed over

his forehead, spoke in a low voice, and always cast clown his eyes.

Waiting the answer, he joined his hands, and began to twiddle his

thumbs. Hardy opened the letter, and read as follows:

“SIR,--I have only just heard, by mere chance, that you also inhabit

this respectable house: a long illness, and the retirement in which I

live, will explain my ignorance of your being so near. Though we have

only met once, sir, the circumstance which led to that meeting was of so

serious a nature, that I cannot think you have forgotten it.”

Hardy stopped, and tasked his memory for an explanation, and not finding

anything to put him on the right track, he continued to read:

“This circumstance excited in me a feeling of such deep and respectful

sympathy for you, sir, that I cannot resist my anxious desire to wait

upon you, particularly as I learn, that you intend leaving this house to

day--a piece of information I have just derived from the excellent and

worthy Abbe Gabriel, one of the men I most love, esteem, and reverence.

May I venture to hope, sir, that just at the moment of quitting our

common retreat to return to the world, you will deign to receive

favorably the request, however intrusive, of a poor old man, whose life

will henceforth be passed in solitude, and who cannot therefore have

any prospect of meeting you, in that vortex of society which he has

abandoned forever. Waiting the honor of your answer, I beg you to

accept, sir, the assurance of the sentiments of high esteem with which I

remain, sir, with the deepest respect,

“Your very humble and most obedient servant,

“RODIN.”

After reading this letter and the signature of the writer, Hardy

remained for some time in deep thought, without being able to recollect

the name of Rodin, or to what serious circumstances he alluded.

After a silence of some duration, he said to the servant “M. Rodin gave

you this letter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And who is M. Rodin?”

“A good old gentleman, who is just recovering from a long illness, that

almost carried him off. Lately, he has been getting better, but he is

still so weak and melancholy, that it makes one sad to see him. It is a

great pity, for there is not a better and more worthy gentleman in the

house--unless it be you, sir,” added the servant, bowing with an air of

flattering respect.

“M. Rodin;” said Hardy, thoughtfully. “It is singular, that I should not

remember the name nor any circumstance connected with it.”

“If you will give me your answer, sir,” resumed the servant, “I will

take it to M. Rodin. He is now with Father d’Aigrigny, to whom he is

bidding farewell.”

“Farewell?”

“Yes, sir, the post-horses have just come.”

“Post-horses for whom?” asked Hardy.

“For Father d’Aigrigny, sir.”

“He is going on a journey then!” said Hardy, with some surprise.

“Oh! he will not, I think be long absent,” said the servant, with a

confidential air, “for the reverend father takes no one with him, and

but very light luggage. No doubt, the reverend father will come to say

farewell to you, sir, before he starts. But what answer shall I give M.

Rodin?”

The letter, just received, was couched in such polite terms--it spoke

of Gabriel with so much respect--that Hardy, urged moreover by a natural

curiosity, and seeing no motive to refuse this interview before quitting

the house, said to the servant: “Please tell M. Rodin, that if he will

give himself the trouble to come to me, I shall be glad to see him.”

“I will let him know immediately, sir,” answered the servant, bowing as

he left the room.

When alone, Hardy, while wondering who this M. Rodin could be, began

to make some slight preparations for his departure. For nothing in the

world would he have passed another night in this house; and, in order

to keep up his courage, he recalled every instant the mild, evangelical

language of Gabriel, just as the superstitious recite certain litanies,

with a view of escaping from temptation.

The servant soon returned, and said: “M. Rodin is here, sir.”

“Beg him to walk in.”

Rodin entered, clad in his long black dressing-gown, and with his

old silk cap in his hand. The servant then withdrew. The day was just

closing. Hardy rose to meet Rodin, whose features he did not at first

distinguish. But as the reverend father approached the window, Hardy

looked narrowly at him for an instant, and then uttered an exclamation,

wrung from him by surprise and painful remembrance. But, recovering

himself from this first movement, Hardy said to the Jesuit, in an

agitated voice: “You here, sir? Oh, you are right! It was indeed a very

serious circumstance that first brought us together.”

“Oh, my dear sir!” said Rodin, in a kindly and unctuous tone; “I was

sure you would not have forgotten me.”

CHAPTER XLIII. PRAYER.

It will doubtless be remembered that Rodin had gone (although a stranger

to Hardy) to visit him at his factory, and inform him of De Blessac’s

shameful treachery--a dreadful blow, which had only preceded by a few

moments a second no less horrible misfortune; for it was in the presence

of Rodin that Hardy had learned the unexpected departure of the woman

he adored. Painful to him must have been the sudden appearance of

Rodin. Yes, thanks to the salutary influence of Gabriel’s counsels, he

recovered himself by degrees, and the contraction of his features being

succeeded by a melancholy calm, he said to Rodin: “I did not indeed

expect to meet you, sir, in this house.”

“Alas, sir!” answered Rodin, with a sigh, “I did not expect to come

hither, probably to end my days beneath this roof, when I went, without

being acquainted with you, but only as one honest man should serve

another, to unveil to you a great infamy.”

“Indeed, sir, you then rendered me a true service; perhaps, in that

painful moment, I did not fully express my gratitude; for, at the same

moment in which you revealed to me the treachery of M. de Blessac--”

“You were overwhelmed by another piece of painful intelligence,” said

Rodin, interrupting M. Hardy; “I shall never forget the sudden arrival

of that poor woman, who, pale and affrighted, and without considering my

presence, came to inform you that a person who was exceedingly dear to

you had quitted Paris abruptly.”

“Yes, sir; and, without stopping to thank you, I set out immediately,”

answered Hardy, with a mournful air.

“Do you know, sir,” said Rodin, after a moment’s silence, “that there

are sometimes very strange coincidences?”

“To what do you allude, sir?”

“While I went to inform you that you were betrayed in so infamous a

manner--I was myself--”

Rodin paused, as if unable to control his deep emotion, and his

countenance wore the expression of such overpowering grief that Hardy

said to him, with interest: “What ails you, sir?”

“Forgive me,” replied Rodin, with a bitter smile. “Thanks to the

ghostly counsels of the angelic Abbe Gabriel, I have reached a sort of

resignation. Still, there are certain memories which affect me with the

most acute pain. I told you,” resumed Rodin, in a firmer voice, “or was

going to tell you, that the very day after that on which I informed you

of the treachery practised against you, I was myself the victim of a

frightful deception. An adopted son--a poor unfortunate child, whom

I had brought up--” He paused again, drew his trembling hand over his

eyes, and added: “Pardon me, sir, for speaking of matters which must

be indifferent to you. Excuse the intrusive sorrow of a poor, broken

hearted old man!”

“I have suffered too much myself, sir, to be indifferent to any kind of

sorrow,” replied Hardy. “Besides, you are no stranger to me--for you

did me a real service--and we both agree in our veneration for the same

young priest.”

“The Abbe Gabriel!” cried Rodin, interrupting Hardy; “ah, sir! he is my

deliverer, my benefactor. If you knew all his care and devotion, during

my long illness, caused by intense grief--if you knew the ineffable

sweetness of his counsels--”

“I know them, sir,” cried Hardy; “oh, yes! I know how salutary is the

influence.”

“In his mouth, sir, the precepts of religion are full of mildness,”

resumed Rodin, with excitement. “Do they not heal and console? do they

not make us love and hope, instead of fear and tremble?”

“Alas, sir! in this very house,” said Hardy, “I have been able to make

the comparison.”

“I was happy enough,” said Rodin, “to have the angelic Abbe Gabriel for

my confessor, or, rather, my confidant.”

“Yes,” replied Hardy, “for he prefers confidence to confession.”

“How well you know him!” said Rodin, in a tone of the utmost simplicity.

Then he resumed: “He is not a man but an angel. His words would convert

the most hardened sinner. Without being exactly impious, I had myself

lived in the profession of what is called Natural Religion; but the

angelic Abbe Gabriel has, by degrees, fixed my wavering belief, given it

body and soul, and, in fact, endowed me with faith.”

“Yes! he is a truly Christian priest--a priest of love and pardon!”

cried Hardy.

“What you say is perfectly true,” replied Rodin; “for I came here almost

mad with grief, thinking only of the unhappy boy who had repaid my

paternal goodness with the most monstrous ingratitude, and sometimes I

yielded to violent bursts of despair, and sometimes sank into a state

of mournful dejection, cold as the grave itself. But, suddenly, the

Abbe Gabriel appeared--and the darkness fled before the dawning of a new

day.”

“You were right, sir; there are strange coincidences,” said Hardy,

yielding more and more to the feeling of confidence and sympathy,

produced by the resemblance of his real position to Rodin’s pretended

one. “And to speak frankly,” he added, “I am very glad I have seen you

before quitting this house. Were I capable of falling back into fits of

cowardly weakness, your example alone would prevent me. Since I listen

to you, I feel myself stronger in the noble path which the angelic Abbe

Gabriel has opened before me, as you so well express it.”

“The poor old man will not then regret having listened to the first

impulse of his heart, which urged him to come to you,” said Robin, with

a touching expression. “You will sometimes remember me in that world to

which you are returning?”

“Be sure of it, sir; but allow me to ask one question: You remain, you

say, in this house?”

“What would you have me do? There reigns here a calm repose, and one is

not disturbed in one’s prayers,” said Rodin, in a very gentle tone. “You

see, I have suffered so much--the conduct of that unhappy youth was

so horrible--he plunged into such shocking excesses--that the wrath of

heaven must be kindled against him. Now I am very old, and it is only by

passing the few days that are left me in fervent prayer that I can hope

to disarm the just anger of the Lord. Oh! prayer--prayer! It was

the Abbe Gabriel who revealed to me all its power and sweetness--and

therewith the formidable duties it imposes.”

“Its duties are indeed great and sacred,” answered Hardy, with a pensive

air.

“Do you remember the life of Rancey?” said Rodin, abruptly, as he darted

a peculiar glance at Hardy.

“The founder of La Trappe?” said Hardy, surprised at Rodin’s question.

“I remember hearing a very vague account, some time ago, of the motives

of his conversion.”

“There is, mark you, no more striking an example of the power of prayer,

and of the state of almost divine ecstasy, to which it may lead a

religious soul. In a few words, I will relate to you this instructive

and tragic history. Rancey--but I beg your pardon; I fear I am

trespassing on your time.”

“No, no,” answered Hardy, hastily; “You cannot think how interested I

am in what you tell me. My interview with the Abbe Gabriel was abruptly

broken off, and in listening to you I fancy that I hear the further

development of his views. Go on, I conjure you.

“With all my heart. I only wish that the instruction which, thanks

to our angelic priest, I derived from the story of Rancey might be as

profitable to you as it was to me.”

“This, then, also came from the Abbe Gabriel?”

“He related to me this kind of parable in support of his exhortations,”

replied Rodin. “Oh, sir! do I not owe to the consoling words of that

young priest all that has strengthened and revived my poor old broken

heart?”

“Then I shall listen to you with a double interest.”

“Rancey was a man of the world,” resumed Rodin, as he looked attentively

at Hardy; “a gentleman--young, ardent, handsome. He loved a young lady

of high rank. I cannot tell what impediments stood in the way of their

union. But this love, though successful, was kept secret, and every

evening Rancey visited his mistress by means of a private staircase. It

was, they say, one of those passionate loves which men feel but once

in their lives. The mystery, even the sacrifice made by the unfortunate

girl, who forgot every duty, seemed to give new charms to this guilty

passion. In the silence and darkness of secrecy, these two lovers passed

two years of voluptuous delirium, which amounted almost to ecstasy.”

At these words Hardy started. For the first time of late his brow was

suffused with a deep blush; his heart throbbed violently; he remembered

that he too had once known the ardent intoxication of a guilty and

hidden love. Though the day was closing rapidly, Rodin cast a sidelong

glance at Hardy, and perceived the impression he had made. “Some

times,” he continued, “thinking of the dangers to which his mistress

was exposed, if their connection should be discovered, Rancey wished to

sever these delicious ties; but the girl, beside herself with passion,

threw herself on the neck of her lover, and threatened him, in the

language of intense excitement, to reveal and to brave all, if he

thought of leaving her. Too weak and loving to resist the prayers of his

mistress, Rancey again and again yielded, and they both gave themselves

up to a torrent of delight, which carried them along, forgetful of earth

and heaven!”

M. Hardy listened to Rodin with feverish and devouring avidity. The

Jesuit, in painting, with these almost sensual colors, an ardent and

secret love, revived in Hardy burning memories, which till now had been

drowned in tears. To the beneficent calm produced by the mild language

of Gabriel had succeeded a painful agitation, which, mingled with the

reaction of the shocks received that day, began to throw his mind into a

strange state of confusion.

Rodin, having so far succeeded in his object, continued as follows: “A

fatal day came at last. Rancey, obliged to go to the wars, quitted the

girl; but, after a short campaign, he returned, more in love than ever.

He had written privately, to say he would arrive almost immediately

after his letter. He came accordingly. It was night. He ascended, as

usual, the private staircase which led to the chamber of his mistress;

he entered the room, his heart beating with love and hope. His mistress

had died that morning!”

“Ah!” cried Hardy, covering his face with his hands, in terror.

“She was dead,” resumed Rodin. “Two wax-candles were burning beside the

funeral couch. Rancey could not, would not believe that she was dead.

He threw himself on his knees by the corpse. In his delirium, he seized

that fair, beloved head, to cover it with kisses. The head parted from

the body, and remained in his hands! Yes,” resumed Rodin as Hardy drew

back, pale and mute with terror, “yes, the girl had fallen a victim

to so swift and extraordinary a disease, that she had not been able to

receive the last sacraments. After her death, the doctors, in the hope

of discovering the cause of this unknown malady, had begun to dissect

that fair form--”

As Rodin reached this part of his narrative, night was almost come.

A sort of hazy twilight alone reigned in this silent chamber, in the

centre of which appeared the pale and ghastly form of Rodin, clad in his

long black gown, whilst his eyes seemed to sparkle with diabolic fire.

Overcome by the violent emotions occasioned by this story, in which

thoughts of death and voluptuousness, love and horror, were so strangely

mingled, Hardy remained fixed and motionless, waiting for the words of

Rodin, with a combination of curiosity, anguish and alarm.

“And Rancey?” said he, at last, in an agitated voice, whilst he wiped

the cold sweat from his brow.

“After two days of furious delirium,” resumed Rodin, “he renounced the

world, and shut himself up in impenetrable solitude. The first period

of his retreat was frightful; in his despair, he uttered loud yells of

grief and rage, that were audible at some distance. Twice he attempted

suicide, to escape from the terrible visions.”

“He had visions, then?” said Hardy, with an increased agony of

curiosity.

“Yes,” replied Rodin, in a solemn tone, “he had fearful visions. He saw

the girl, who, for his sake, had died in mortal sin, plunged in the

heat of the everlasting flames of hell! On that fair face, disfigured by

infernal tortures, was stamped the despairing laugh of the damned! Her

teeth gnashed with pain; her arms writhed in anguish! She wept tears

of blood, and, with an agonized and avenging voice, she cried to her

seducer: ‘Thou art the cause of my perdition--my curse, my curse be upon

thee!’”

As he pronounced these last words, Rodin advanced three steps nearer to

Hardy, accompanying each step with a menacing gesture. If we remember

the state of weakness, trouble, and fear, in which M. Hardy was--if we

remember that the Jesuit had just roused in the soul of this unfortunate

man all the sensual and spiritual memories of a love, cooled, but not

extinguished, in tears--if we remember, too, that Hardy reproached

himself with the seduction of a beloved object, whom her departure from

her duties might (according to the Catholic faith) doom to

everlasting flames--we shall not wonder at the terrible effect of this

phantasmagoria, conjured up in silence and solitude, in the evening

dusk, by this fearful priest.

The effect on Hardy was indeed striking, and the more dangerous, that

the Jesuit, with diabolical craft, seemed only to be carrying out, from

another point of view, the ideas of Gabriel. Had not the young

priest convinced Hardy that nothing is sweeter, than to ask of heaven

forgiveness for those who have sinned, or whom we have led astray? But

forgiveness implies punishment; and it was to the punishment alone that

Rodin drew the attention of his victim, by painting it in these terrible

hues. With hands clasped together, and eye fixed and dilated, Hardy

trembled in all his limbs, and seemed still listening to Rodin, though

the latter had ceased to speak. Mechanically, he repeated: “My curse, my

curse be upon thee?”

Then suddenly he exclaimed, in a kind of frenzy: “The curse is on me

also! The woman, whom I taught to forget her sacred duties, and to

commit mortal sin--one day plunged in the everlasting flames--her arms

writhing in agony--weeping tears of blood--will cry to me from the

bottomless pit: ‘My curse, my curse be upon thee!’--One day,” he

added, with redoubled terror, “one day?--who knows? perhaps at

this moment!--for if the sea voyage had been fatal to her--if a

shipwreck--oh, God! she too would have died in mortal sin--lost, lost,

forever!--Oh, have mercy on her, my God! Crush me in Thy wrath--but have

mercy on her--for I alone am guilty!”

And the unfortunate man, almost delirious, sank with clasped hands upon

the ground.

“Sir,” cried Rodin, in an affectionate voice, as he hastened to lift him

up, “my dear sir--my dear friend--be calm! Comfort yourself. I cannot

bear to see you despond. Alas! my intention was quite the contrary to

that.”

“The curse! the curse! yes, she will curse me also--she, that I loved

so much--in the everlasting flames!” murmured Hardy, shuddering, and

apparently insensible to the other’s words.

“But, my dear sir, listen to me, I entreat you,” resumed the latter;

“let me finish my story, and then you will find it as consoling as it

now seems terrible. For heaven’s sake, remember the adorable words of

our angelic Abbe Gabriel, with regard to the sweetness of prayer.”

At the name of Gabriel, Hardy recovered himself a little, and exclaimed,

in a heart-rending tone: “Ay! his words were sweet and beneficent. Where

are they now? For mercy’s sake, repeat to me those consoling words.”

“Our angelic Abbe Gabriel,” resumed Rodin, “spoke to you of the

sweetness of prayer--”

“Oh, yes! prayer!”

“Well, my dear sir, listen to me, and you shall see how prayer saved

Rancey, and made a saint of him. Yes, these frightful torments, that I

have just described, these threatening visions, were all conquered by

prayer, and changed into celestial delights.”

“I beg of you,” said Hardy, in a faint voice, “speak to me of Gabriel,

speak to me of heaven--but no more flames--no more hell--where sinful

women weep tears of blood--”

“No, no,” replied Rodin; and even as, in describing hell, his tone had

been harsh and threatening, it now became warm and tender, as he uttered

the following words: “No; we will have no more images of despair--for,

as I have told you, after suffering infernal tortures, Rancey, thanks to

the power of prayer, enjoyed the delights of paradise.”

“The delights of paradise?” repeated Hardy, listening with anxious

attention.

“One day, at the height of his grief, a priest, a good priest--another

Abbe Gabriel--came to Rancey. Oh, happiness! oh, providential change! In

a few days, he taught the sufferer the sacred mysteries of prayer--that

pious intercession of the creature, addressed to the Creator, in

favor of a soul exposed to the wrath of heaven. Then Rancey seemed

transformed. His grief was at once appeased. He prayed; and the more

he prayed, the greater was his hope. He felt that God listened to his

prayer. Instead of trying to forget his beloved, he now thought of her

constantly, and prayed for her salvation. Happy in his obscure cell,

alone with that adored remembrance, he passed days and nights in praying

for her--plunged in an ineffable, burning, I had almost said amorous

ecstasy.”

It is impossible to give an idea of the tone of almost sensual energy

with which Rodin pronounced the word “amorous.” Hardy started, changing

from hot to cold. For the first time, his weakened mind caught a glimpse

of the fatal pleasures of asceticism, and of that deplorable catalepsy,

described in the lives of St. Theresa, St. Aubierge and others.

Rodin perceived the other’s thoughts, and continued “Oh, Rancey was not

now the man to content himself with a vague, passing prayer, uttered in

the whirl of the world’s business, which swallows it up, and prevents

it from reaching the ear of heaven. No, no; in the depth of solitude, he

endeavored to make his prayers even more efficacious, so ardently did he

desire the eternal salvation of his mistress.”

“What did he do then--oh! what did he do in his solitude?” cried Hardy,

who was now powerless in the hands of the Jesuit.

“First of all,” said Rodin, with a slight emphasis, “he became a monk.”

“A monk!” repeated Hardy, with a pensive air.

“Yes,” resumed Rodin, “he became a monk, because his prayers were thus

more likely to be favorably accepted. And then, as in solitude our

thoughts are apt to wander, he fasted, and mortified his flesh, and

brought into subjection all that was carnal within him, so that,

becoming all spirit, his prayers might issue like a pure flame from his

bosom, and ascend like the perfume of incense to the throne of the Most

High!”

“Oh! what a delicious dream!” cried Hardy, more and more under the

influence of the spell; “to pray for the woman we have adored, and to

become spirit--perfume--light!”

“Yes; spirit, perfume, light!” said Rodin, with emphasis. “But it is no

dream. How many monks, how many hermits, like Rancey, have, by prayers,

and austerity, and macerations, attained a divine ecstasy! and if you

only knew the celestial pleasures of such ecstasies!--Thus, after he

became a monk, the terrible dreams were succeeded by enchanting visions.

Many times, after a day of fasting, and a night passed in prayers and

macerations, Rancey sank down exhausted on the floor of his cell! Then

the spirit freed itself from the vile clogs of matter. His senses were

absorbed in pleasure; the sound of heavenly harmony struck upon his

ravished car; a bright, mild light, which was not of this world,

dawned upon his half-closed eyes; and, at the height of the melodious

vibrations of the golden harps of the Seraphim, in the centre of a

glory, compared to which the sun is pale, the monk beheld the image of

that beloved woman--”

“Whom by his prayers he had at length rescued from the eternal flames?”

said Hardy, in a trembling voice.

“Yes, herself,” replied Rodin, with eloquent enthusiasm, for this

monster was skilled in every style of speech. “Thanks to the prayers of

her lover, which the Lord had granted, this woman no longer shed tears

of blood--no longer writhed her beautiful arms in the convulsions of

infernal anguish. No, no; still fair--oh! a thousand times fairer than

when she dwelt on earth--fair with the everlasting beauty of angels--she

smiled on her lover with ineffable ardor, and, her eyes beaming with a

mild radiance, she said to him in a tender and passionate voice: ‘Glory

to the Lord! glory to thee, O my beloved! Thy prayers and austerities

have saved me. I am numbered amongst the chosen. Thanks, my beloved, and

glory!’--And therewith, radiant in her felicity, she stooped to

kiss, with lips fragrant with immortality, the lips of the enraptured

monk--and their souls mingled in that kiss, burning as love, chaste as

divine grace immense as eternity!”

“Oh!” cried Hardy, completely beside himself; “a whole life of prayer,

fasting, torture, for such a moment--with her, whom I mourn--with her,

whom I have perhaps led to perdition!”

“What do you say? such a moment!” cried Rodin, whose yellow forehead was

bathed in sweat like that of a magnetizer, and who now took Hardy by

the hand, and drew still closer, as if to breathe into him the burning

delirium; “it was not once in his religious life--it was almost every

day, that Rancey, plunged in divine ecstasy, enjoyed these delicious,

ineffable, superhuman pleasures, which are to the pleasures of earth

what eternity is to man’s existence!”

Seeing, no doubt, that Hardy was now at the point to which he wished to

bring him, and the night being almost entirely come, the reverend father

coughed two or three times in a significant manner, and looked towards

the door. At this moment, Hardy, in the height of his frenzy, exclaimed,

with a supplicating voice: “A cell--a tomb--and the Ecstatic Vision!”

The door of the room opened, and Father d’Aigrigny entered, with a cloak

under his arm. A servant followed him, bearing a light.