On M. Hardy’s learning from the confidential go-between of the lovers, that his mistress had been taken away by her mother, he turned from Rodin and dashed away in a post carriage.  At the same moment, as loud as the rattle of the wheels, there arose the shouts of a band of workmen and rioters, hired by the Jesuit’s emissaries, coming to attack Hardy’s operatives.  An old grudge long existing between them and a rival manufacturer’s—­Baron Tripeaud—­laborers, fanned the flames.  When M. Hardy had left the factory, Rodin, who was not prepared for this sudden departure, returned slowly to his hackney-coach; but he stopped suddenly, and started with pleasure and surprise, when he saw, at some distance, Marshall Simon and his father advancing towards one of the wings of the Common Dwelling-house; for an accidental circumstance had so far delayed the interview of the father and son.

“Very well!” said Rodin.  “Better and better!  Now, only let my man have found out and persuaded little Rose-Pompon!”

And Rodin hastened towards his hackney-coach.  At this moment, the wind, which continued to rise, brought to the ear of the Jesuit the war song of the approaching Wolves.

The workman was in the garden.  The marshal said to him, in a voice of such deep emotion that the old man started; “Father, I am very unhappy.”

A painful expression, until then concealed, suddenly darkened the countenance of the marshal.

“You unhappy?” cried father Simon, anxiously, as he pressed nearer to the marshal.

“For some days, my daughters have appeared constrained in manner, and lost in thought.  During the first moments of our re-union, they were mad with joy and happiness.  Suddenly, all has changed; they are becoming more and more sad.  Yesterday, I detected tears in their eyes; then deeply moved, I clasped them in my arms, and implored them to tell me the cause of their sorrow.  Without answering, they threw themselves on my neck, and covered my face with their tears.”

“It is strange.  To what do you attribute this alteration?”

“Sometimes, I think I have not sufficiently concealed from them the grief occasioned me by the loss of their mother, and they are perhaps miserable that they do not suffice for my happiness.  And yet (inexplicable as it is) they seem not only to understand, but to share my sorrow.  Yesterday, Blanche said to me:  ’How much happier still should we be, if our mother were with us!—­’”

“Sharing your sorrow, they cannot reproach you with it.  There must be some other cause for their grief.”

“Yes,” said the marshal, looking fixedly at his father; “yes—­but to penetrate this secret—­it would be necessary not to leave them.”

“What do you mean?”

“First learn, father, what are the duties which would keep me here; then you shall know those which may take me away from you, from my daughters, and from my other child.”