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?"
