The Wandering Jew — Complete
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