The Wandering Jew, Book VII.

E >> Eugene Sue >> The Wandering Jew, Book VII.


"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."

He turned towards Rodin, who had approached hastily, as if to interpose.
"It is not worth while chastising a wretch," said M. Hardy; "But I will
press your honest hand, sir--for you have had the courage to unmask a
traitor and a coward."

"Sir!" cried M. de Blessac, overcome with shame; "I am at your
orders--and--"

He could not finish. The sound of voices was heard behind the door, which
opened violently, and an aged woman entered, in spite of the efforts of
the servant, exclaiming in an agitated voice: "I tell you, I must speak
instantly to your master."

On hearing this voice, and at sight of the pale, weeping woman, M. Hardy,
forgetting M. de Blessac, Rodin, the infamous treachery, and all, fell
back a step, and exclaimed: "Madame Duparc! you here! What is the
matter?"

"Oh, sir! a great misfortune--"

"Margaret!" cried M. Hardy, in a tone of despair.

"She is gone, sir!"

"Gone!" repeated M. Hardy, as horror-struck as if a thunderbolt had
fallen at his feet. "Margaret gone!"

"All is discovered. Her mother took her away--three days ago!" said the
unhappy woman, in a failing voice.

"Gone! Margaret! It is not true. You deceive me," cried M. Hardy.
Refusing to hear more, wild, despairing, he rushed out of the house,
threw himself into his carriage, to which the post-horses were still
harnessed, waiting for M. de Blessac, and said to the postilion: "To
Paris! as fast as you can go!"

As the carriage, rapid as lightning, started upon the road to Paris, the
wind brought nearer the distant sound of the war-song of the Wolves, who
were rushing towards the factory. In this impending destruction, see
Rodin's subtle hand, administering his fatal blows to clear his way up to
the chair of St. Peter to which he aspired. His tireless, wily course can
hardly be darker shadowed by aught save that dread coming horror the
Cholera, whose aid he evoked, and whose health the Bacchanal Queen wildly
drank.

That once gay girl, and her poor famished sister; the fair patrician and
her Oriental lover; Agricola, the workman, and his veteran father; the
smiling Rose-Pompon, and the prematurely withered Jacques Rennepont;
Father d'Aigrigny, the mock priest; and Gabriel, the true disciple; with
the rest that have been named and others yet to be pictured, in the blaze
of the bolts of their life's paths, will be seen in the third and
concluding part of this romance entitled,

"THE WANDERING JEW: REDEMPTION."