At these words Hardy started.  For the first time of late his brow was suffused with a deep blush; his heart throbbed violently; he remembered that he too had once known the ardent intoxication of a guilty and hidden love.  Though the day was closing rapidly, Rodin cast a sidelong glance at Hardy, and perceived the impression he had made.  “Some times,” he continued, “thinking of the dangers to which his mistress was exposed, if their connection should be discovered, Rancey wished to sever these delicious ties; but the girl, beside herself with passion, threw herself on the neck of her lover, and threatened him, in the language of intense excitement, to reveal and to brave all, if he thought of leaving her.  Too weak and loving to resist the prayers of his mistress, Rancey again and again yielded, and they both gave themselves up to a torrent of delight, which carried them along, forgetful of earth and heaven!”

M. Hardy listened to Rodin with feverish and devouring avidity.  The Jesuit, in painting, with these almost sensual colors, an ardent and secret love, revived in Hardy burning memories, which till now had been drowned in tears.  To the beneficent calm produced by the mild language of Gabriel had succeeded a painful agitation, which, mingled with the reaction of the shocks received that day, began to throw his mind into a strange state of confusion.

Rodin, having so far succeeded in his object, continued as follows:  “A fatal day came at last.  Rancey, obliged to go to the wars, quitted the girl; but, after a short campaign, he returned, more in love than ever.  He had written privately, to say he would arrive almost immediately after his letter.  He came accordingly.  It was night.  He ascended, as usual, the private staircase which led to the chamber of his mistress; he entered the room, his heart beating with love and hope.  His mistress had died that morning!”

“Ah!” cried Hardy, covering his face with his hands, in terror.

“She was dead,” resumed Rodin.  “Two wax-candles were burning beside the funeral couch.  Rancey could not, would not believe that she was dead.  He threw himself on his knees by the corpse.  In his delirium, he seized that fair, beloved head, to cover it with kisses.  The head parted from the body, and remained in his hands!  Yes,” resumed Rodin as Hardy drew back, pale and mute with terror, “yes, the girl had fallen a victim to so swift and extraordinary a disease, that she had not been able to receive the last sacraments.  After her death, the doctors, in the hope of discovering the cause of this unknown malady, had begun to dissect that fair form—­”

As Rodin reached this part of his narrative, night was almost come.  A sort of hazy twilight alone reigned in this silent chamber, in the centre of which appeared the pale and ghastly form of Rodin, clad in his long black gown, whilst his eyes seemed to sparkle with diabolic fire.  Overcome by the violent emotions occasioned by this story, in which thoughts of death and voluptuousness, love and horror, were so strangely mingled, Hardy remained fixed and motionless, waiting for the words of Rodin, with a combination of curiosity, anguish and alarm.