Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Oh, M. Agricola!” said Angela, deeply moved, and drying her tears; “we should receive him with our hands clasped in gratitude.”

  “Look if that mild and noble countenance is not the image of his admirable soul!”

  A carriage with post horses, in which was M. Hardy, with M. de Blessac, the unworthy friend who was betraying him in so infamous a manner, entered at this moment the courtyard of the factory.

  A little while after, a humble hackney-coach was seen advancing also towards the factory, from the direction of Paris. In this coach was Rodin.

  (30) The average price of a workman’s lodging, composed of two small rooms and a closet at most, on the third or fourth story.

  (31) This calculation is amply sufficient, if not excessive. A similar building, at one league from Paris, on the side of Montrouge, with all the necessary offices, kitchen, wash-houses, etc., with gas and water laid on, apparatus for warming, etc., and a garden of ten acres, cost, at the period of this narrative, hardly five hundred thousand francs. An experienced builder less obliged us with an estimate, which confirms what we advance. It is, therefore, evident, that, even at the same price which workmen are in the habit of paying, it would be possible to provide them with perfectly healthy lodgings, and yet invest one’s money at ten per cent.

  (32) The fact was proved in the works connected with the Rouen Railway. Those French workmen who, having no families, were able to live like the English, did at least as much work as the latter, being strengthened by wholesome and sufficient nourishment.

  (33) Buying penny-worths, like all other purchases at minute retail, are greatly to the poor man’s disadvantage.

  CHAPTER LII. REVELATIONS.

  DURING THE VISIT of Angela and Agricola to the Common Dwelling-house, the band of Wolves, joined upon the road by many of the haunters of taverns, continued to march towards the factory, which the hackney-coach, that brought Rodin from Paris, was also fast approaching. M. Hardy, on getting out of the carriage with his friend, M. de Blessac, had entered the parlor of the house that he occupied next the factory. M. Hardy was of middle size, with an elegant and slight figure, which announced a nature essentially nervous and impressionable. His forehead was broad and open, his complexion pale, his eyes black, full at once of mildness and penetration, his countenance honest, intelligent, and attractive.

  One word will paint the character of M. Hardy. His mother had called him her Sensitive Plant. His was indeed one of those fine and exquisitely delicate organizations, which are trusting, loving, noble, generous, but so susceptible, that the least touch makes them shrink into themselves. If we join to this excessive sensibility a passionate love for art, a first-rate intellect, tastes essentially refined, and then think of the thousand deceptions, and numberless infamies of which M. Hardy must have been the victim in his career as a manufacturer, we shall wonder how this heart, so delicate and tender, had not been broken a thousand times, in its incessant struggle with merciless self-interest. M. Hardy had indeed suffered much. Forced to follow the career of productive industry, to honor the engagements of his father, a model of uprightness and probity, who had yet left his affairs somewhat embarrassed, in consequence of the events of 1815, he had succeeded, by perseverance and capacity, in attaining one of the most honorable positions in the commercial world. But, to arrive at this point, what ignoble annoyances had he to bear with, what perfidious opposition to combat, what hateful rivalries to tire out!

  Sensitive as he was, M. Hardy would a thousand times have fallen a victim to his emotions of painful indignation against baseness, of bitter disgust at dishonesty, but for the wise and firm support of his mother. When he returned to her, after a day of painful struggles with odious deceptions, he found himself suddenly transported into an atmosphere of such beneficent purity, of such radiant serenity, that he lost almost on the instant the remembrance of the base things by which he had been so cruelly tortured during the day; the pangs of his heart were appeased at the mere contact of her great and lofty soul; and therefore his love for her resembled idolatry. When he lost her, he experienced one of those calm, deep sorrows which have no end — which become, as it were, part of life, and have even sometimes their days of melancholy sweetness. A little while after this great misfortune, M. Hardy became more closely connected with his workmen. He had always been a just and good master; but, although the place that his mother left in his heart would ever remain void, he felt as it were a redoubled overflowing of the affections, and the more he suffered, the more he craved to see happy faces around him. The wonderful ameliorations, which he now produced in the physical and moral condition of all about him, served, not to divert, but to occupy his grief. Little by little, he withdrew from the world, and concentrated his life in three affections: a tender and devoted friendship, which seemed to include all past friendships — a love ardent and sincere, like a last passion — and a paternal attachment to his workmen. His days therefore passed in the heart of that little world, so full of respect and gratitude towards him — a world, which he had, as it were, created after the image of his mind, that he might find there a refuge from the painful realities he dreaded, surrounded with good, intelligent, happy beings, capable of responding to the noble thoughts which had become more and more necessary to his existence. Thus, after many sorrows, M. Hardy, arrived at the maturity of age, possessing a sincere friend, a mistress worthy of his love, and knowing himself certain of the passionate devotion of his workmen, had attained, at the period of this history, all the happiness he could hope for since his mother’s death.

  M. de Blessac, his bosom friend, had long been worthy of his touching and fraternal affection; but we have seen by what diabolical means Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin had succeeded in making M. de Blessac, until then upright and sincere, the instrument of their machinations. The two friends, who had felt on their journey a little of the sharp influence of the north wind, were warming themselves at a good fire lighted in M. Hardy’s parlor.

  “Oh! my dear Marcel, I begin really to get old,” said M. Hardy, with a smile, addressing M. de Blessac; “I feel more and more the want of being at home. To depart from my usual habits has become painful to me, and I execrate whatever obliges me to leave this happy little spot of ground.”

  “And when I think,” answered M. de Blessac, unable to forbear blushing, “when I think, my friend, that you undertook this long journey only for my sake!—”

  “Well, my dear Marcel! have you not just accompanied me in your turn, in an excursion which, without you, would have been as tiresome as it has been charming?”

  “What a difference, my friend! I have contracted towards you a debt that I can never repay.”

  “Nonsense, my dear Marcel! Between us, there are no distinctions of meum and tuum. Besides, in matters of friendship, it is as sweet to give as to receive.”

  “Noble heart! noble heart!”

  “Say, happy heart! — most happy, in the last affections for which it beats.”

  “And who, gracious heaven! could deserve happiness on earth, if it be not you, my friend?”

  “And to what do I owe that happiness? To the affections which I found here, ready to sustain me, when deprived of the support of my mother, who was all my strength, I felt myself (I confess my weakness) almost incapable of standing up against adversity.”

  “You, my friend — with so firm and resolute a character in doing good — you, that I have seen struggle with so much energy and courage, to secure the triumph of some great and noble idea?”

  “Yes; but the farther I advance in my career, the more am I disgusted with all base and shameful actions, and the less strength I feel to encounter them—”

  “Were it necessary, you would have the courage, my friend.”

  “My dear Marcel,” replied M. Hardy, with mild and restrained emotion, “I have often said to you: My courage was my mother. You see, my friend, when I went to her, with my heart torn by some horrible ingratitude, or disgusted by some base deceit, she,
taking my hands between her own venerable palms, would say to me in her grave and tender voice: ‘My dear child, it is for the ungrateful and dishonest to suffer; let us pity the wicked, let us forget evil, and only think of good.’ — Then, my friend, this heart, painfully contracted, expanded beneath the sacred influence of the maternal words, and every day I gathered strength from her, to recommence on the morrow a cruel struggle with the sad necessities of my condition. Happily, it has pleased God, that, after losing that beloved mother, I have been able to bind up my life with affections, deprived of which, I confess, I should find myself feeble and disarmed for you cannot tell, Marcel, the support, the strength that I have found in your friendship.”

  “Do not speak of me, my dear friend,” replied M. de Blessac, dissembling his embarrassment. “Let us talk of another affection, almost as sweet and tender as that of a mother.”

  “I understand you, my good Marcel,” replied M. Hardy: “I have concealed nothing from you since, under such serious circumstances, I had recourse to the counsels of your friendship. Well! yes; I think that every day I live augment my adoration for this woman, the only one that I have ever passionately loved, the only one that I shall now ever love. And then I must tell you, that my mother, not knowing what Margaret was to me, as often loud in her praise, and that circumstance renders this love almost sacred in my eyes.”

  “And then there are such strange resemblances between Mme. de Noisy’s character and yours, my friend; above all, in her worship of her mother.”

  “It is true, Marcel; that affection has often caused me both admiration and torment. How often she has said to me, with her habitual frankness: ‘I have sacrificed all for you, but I would sacrifice you for my mother.’”

  “Thank heaven, my friend, you will never see Mme. de Noisy exposed to that cruel choice. Her mother, you say, has long renounced her intention of returning to America, where M. de Noisy, perfectly careless of his wife, appears to have settled himself permanently. Thanks to the discreet devotion of the excellent woman by whom Margaret was brought up, your love is concealed in the deepest mystery. What could disturb it now?”

  “Nothing — oh! nothing,” cried M. Hardy. “I have almost security for its duration.”

  “What do you mean, my friend?”

  “I do not know if I ought to tell you.”

  “Have you ever found me indiscreet, my friend?”

  “You, good Marcel! how can you suppose such a thing?” said M. Hardy, in a tone of friendly reproach; “no! but I do not like to tell you of my happiness, till it is complete; and I am not yet quite certain—”

  A servant entered at this moment and said to M. Hardy: “Sir, there is an old gentleman who wishes to speak to you on very pressing business.”

  “So soon!” said M. Hardy, with a slight movement of impatience. “With your permission, my friend.” Then, as M. de Blessac seemed about to withdraw into the next room, M. Hardy added with a smile: “No, no; do not stir. Your presence will shorten the interview.”

  “But if it be a matter of business, my friend?”

  “I do everything openly, as you know.” Then, addressing the servant, M. Hardy bade him: “Ask the gentleman to walk in.”

  “The postilion wishes to know if he is to wait?”

  “Certainly: he will take M. de Blessac back to Paris.”

  The servant withdrew, and presently returned, introducing Rodin, with whom M. de Blessac was not acquainted, his treacherous bargain having been negotiated through another agent.

  “M. Hardy?” said Rodin, bowing respectfully to the two friends, and looking from one to the other with an air of inquiry.

  “That is my name, sir; what can I do to serve you?” answered the manufacturer, kindly; for, at first sight of the humble and ill-dressed old man, he expected an application for assistance.

  “M. Francois Hardy,” repeated Rodin, as if he wished to make sure of the identity of the person.

  “I have had the honor to tell you that I am he.”

  “I have a private communication to make to you, sir,” said Rodin.

  “You may speak, sir. This gentleman is my friend,” said M. Hardy, pointing to M. de Blessac.

  “But I wish to speak to you alone, sir,” resumed Rodin.

  M. de Blessac was again about to withdraw, when M. Hardy retained him with a glance, and said to Rodin kindly, for he thought his feelings might be hurt by asking a favor in presence of a third party: “Permit me to inquire if it is on your account or on mine, that you wish this interview to be secret?”

  “On your account entirely, sir,” answered Rodin.

  “Then, sir,” said M. Hardy, with some surprise, “you may speak out. I have no secrets from this gentleman.”

  After a moment’s silence, Rodin resumed, addressing himself to M. Hardy: “Sir, you deserve, I know, all the good that is said of you; and you therefore command the sympathy of every honest man.”

  “I hope so, sir.”

  “Now, as an honest man, I come to render you a service.”

  “And this service, sir—”

  “To reveal to you an infamous piece of treachery, of which you have been the victim.”

  “I think, sir, you must be deceived.”

  “I have the proofs of what I assert.”

  “Proofs?”

  “The written proofs of the treachery that I come to reveal: I have them here,” answered Rodin “In a word, a man whom you believed your friend, has shamefully deceived you, sir.”

  “And the name of this man?”

  “M. Marcel de Blessac,” replied Rodin.

  On these words, M. de Blessac started, and became pale as death. He could hardly murmur: “Sir—”

  But, without looking at his friend, or perceiving his agitation, M. Hardy seized his hand, and exclaimed hastily: “Silence, my friend!” Then, whilst his eye flashed with indignation, he turned towards Rodin, who had not ceased to look him full in the face, and said to him, with an air of lofty disdain: “What! do you accuse M. de Blessac?”

  “Yes, I accuse him,” replied Rodin, briefly.

  “Do you know him?”

  “I have never seen him.”

  “Of what do you accuse him? And how dare you say that he has betrayed me?”

  “Two words, if you please,” said Rodin, with an emotion which he appeared hardly able to restrain. “If one man of honor sees another about to be slain by an assassin, ought he not give the alarm of murder?”

  “Yes, sir; but what has that to do—”

  “In my eyes, sir, certain treasons are as criminal as murders: I have come to place myself between the assassin and his victim.”

  “The assassin? the victim?” said M. Hardy more and more astonished.

  “You doubtless know M. de Blessac’s writing?” said Rodin.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then read this,” said Rodin, drawing from his pocket a letter, which he handed to M. Hardy.

  Casting now for the first time a glance at M. de Blessac, the manufacturer drew back a step, terrified at the death-like paleness of this man, who, struck dumb with shame, could not find a word to justify himself; for he was far from possessing the audacious effrontery necessary to carry him through his treachery.

  “Marcel!” cried M. Hardy, in alarm, and deeply agitated by this unexpected blow. “Marcel! how pale you are! you do not answer!”

  “Marcel! this, then, is M. de Blessac?” cried Rodin, feigning the most painful surprise. “Oh, sir, if I had known—”

  “But don’t you hear this man, Marcel?” cried M. Hardy. “He says that you have betrayed me infamously.” He seized the hand of M. de Blessac. That hand was cold as ice. “Oh, God! Oh God!” said M. Hardy, drawing back in horror: “he makes no answer!”

  “Since I am in presence of M. de Blessac,” resumed Rodin, “I am forced to ask him, if he can deny having addressed many letters to the Rue du Milieu des Ursins, at Paris under cover of M. Rodin.”

  M. de Blessac remained dumb.
M. Hardy, still unwilling to believe what he saw and heard, convulsively tore open the letter, which Rodin had just delivered to him, and read the first few lines — interrupting the perusal with exclamations of grief and amazement. He did not require to finish the letter, to convince himself of the black treachery of M. de Blessac. He staggered; for a moment his senses seemed to abandon him. The horrible discovery made him giddy, and his head swam on his first look down into that abyss of infamy. The loathsome letter dropped from his trembling hands. But soon indignation, rage, and scorn succeeded this moment of despair, and rushing, pale and terrible, upon M. de Blessac: “Wretch!” he exclaimed, with a threatening gesture. But, pausing as in the act to strike: “No!” he added, with fearful calmness. “It would be to soil my hands.”