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.”

She had not hesitated.  There was therefore no hope, not the slightest; even if an ocean had not separated him from Margaret, he knew enough of her blind submission to her mother, to be certain that all relations between them were broken off forever.  It is well.  He will no longer reckon upon this heart—­his last refuge.  The two roots of his life have been torn up and broken, with the same blow, the same day, almost at the same moment.  What then remains for thee, poor sensitive plant, as thy tender mother used to call thee?  What remains to console thee for the loss of this last love—­this last friendship, so infamously crushed?  Oh! there remains for thee that one corner of the earth, created after the image of thy mind that little colony, so peaceful and flourishing, where, thanks to thee, labor brings with it joy and recompense.  These worthy artisans, whom thou hast made happy, good, and grateful, will not fail thee.  That also is a great and holy affection; let it be thy shelter in the midst of this frightful wreck of all thy most sacred convictions!  The calm of that cheerful and pleasant retreat, the sight of the unequalled happiness of thy dependents, will soothe thy poor, suffering soul, which now seems to live only for suffering.  Come! you will soon reach the top of the hill, from which you can see afar, in the plain below, that paradise of workmen, of which you are the presiding divinity.