erest."

"Rancey was a man of the world," resumed Rodin, as he looked attentively
at Hardy; "a gentleman--young, ardent, handsome. He loved a young lady
of high rank. I cannot tell what impediments stood in the way of their
union. But this love, though successful, was kept secret, and every
evening Rancey visited his mistress by means of a private staircase. It
was, they say, one of those passionate loves which men feel but once
in their lives. The mystery, even the sacrifice made by the unfortunate
girl, who forgot every duty, seemed to give new charms to this guilty
passion. In the silence and darkness of secrecy, these two lovers passed
two years of voluptuous delirium, which amounted almost to ecstasy."

At these words Hardy started. For the first time of late his brow was
suffused with a deep blush; his heart throbbed violently; he remembered
that he too had once known the ardent intoxication of a guilty and
hidden love. Though the day was closing rapidly, Rodin cast a sidelong
glance at Hardy, and perceived the impression he had made. "Some
times," he continued, "thinking of the dangers to which his mistress
was exposed, if their connection should be discovered, Rancey wished to
sever these delicious ties; but the girl, beside herself with passion,
threw herself on the neck of her lover, and threatened him, in the
language of intense excitement, to reveal and to brave all, if he
thought of leaving her. Too weak and loving to resist the prayers of his
mistress, Rancey again and again yielded, and they both gave themselves
up to a torrent of delight, which carried them along, forgetful of earth
and heaven!"

M. Hardy listened to Rodin with feverish and devouring avidity. The
Jesuit, in painting, with these almost sensual colors, an ardent and
secret love, revived in Hardy burning memories, which till now had been
drowned in tears. To the beneficent calm produced by the mild language
of Gabriel had succeeded a painful agitation, which, mingled with the
reaction of the shocks received that day, began to throw his mind into a
strange state of confusion.

Rodin, having so far succeeded in his object, continued as follows: "A
fatal day came at last. Rancey, obliged to go to the wars, quitted the
girl; but, after a short campaign, he returned, more in love than ever.
He had written privately, to say he would arrive almost immediately
after his letter. He came accordingly. It was night. He ascended, as
usual, the priva