lthough 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