“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?”