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.”