“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.”