“It is growing less, I think,” said the marshal, in order not to agitate his father.

“Pierre,” said the old man, in a weak and broken voice, “I have not long to live.”

“Father—­”

“Let me speak, child; if I can but tell you all.”

“Sir,” said Baleinier piously to the old workman, “heaven may perhaps work a miracle in your favor; show yourself grateful, and allow a priest—­”

“A priest!  Thank you, sir—­I have my son,” said the old man; “in his arms, I will render up my soul—­which has always been true and honest.”

“You die?” exclaimed the marshal; “no! no!”

“Pierre,” said the old man, in a voice which, firm at first, gradually grew fainter, “just now—­you ask my advice in a very serious matter.  I think, that the wish to tell you of your duty—­has recalled me—­for a moment—­to life—­for I should die miserable—­if I thought you in a road unworthy of yourself and me.  Listen to me, my son—­my noble son—­at this last hour, a father cannot deceive himself.  You have a great duty to perform—–­under pain—­of not acting like a man of honor—­under pain of neglecting my last will.  You ought, without hesitation—­”

Here the voice failed the old man.  When he had pronounced the last sentence, he became quite unintelligible.  The only words that Marshal Simon could distinguish, were these:  “Napoleon II.—­oath—­dishonor—­my son!”

Then the old workman again moved his lips mechanically—­and all was over.  At the moment he expired, the night was quite come, and terrible shouts were heard from without, of “Fire!  Fire!” The conflagration had broken out in one of the workshops, filled with inflammable stuff, into which had glided the little man with the ferret’s face.  At the same time, the roll of drums was heard in the distance, announcing the arrival of a detachment of troops from town.

During an hour, in spite of every effort, the fire had been spreading through the factory.  The night is clear, cold, starlight; the wind blows keenly from the north, with a moaning sound.  A man, walking across the fields, where the rising ground conceals the fire from him, advances with slow and unsteady steps.  It is M. Hardy.  He had chosen to return home on foot, across the country, hoping that a walk would calm the fever in his blood—­an icy fever, more like the chill of death.  He had not been deceived.  His adored mistress—­the noble woman, with whom he might have found refuge from the consequences of the fearful deception which had just been revealed to him—­had quitted France.  He could have no doubt of it.  Margaret was gone to America.  Her mother had exacted from her, in expiation of her fault, that she should not even write to him one word of farewell—­to him, for whom she had sacrificed her duty as a wife.  Margaret had obeyed.

Besides, she had often said to him:  “Between my mother and you, I should not hesitate.”