, 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."

M. de Blessac remained dumb. M. Hardy, still unwilling to believe what
he saw and heard, convulsively tore open the letter, which Rodin had
just delivered to him, and read the first few lines--interrupting the
perusal with exclamations of grief and amazement. He did not require to
finish the letter, to convince himself of the black treachery of M. de
Blessac. He staggered; for a moment his senses seemed to abandon him.
The horrible discovery made him giddy, and his head swam on his first
look down into that abyss of infamy. The loathsome letter dropped from
his trembling hands. But soon indignation, rage, and scorn succeeded
this moment of despair, and rushing, pale and terrible, upon M. de
Blessac: "Wretch!" he exclaimed, with a threatening gesture. But,
pausing as in the act to strike: "No!" he added, with fearful calmness.