gning 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. "It would be to soil my
hands."

He turned towards Rodin, who had approached hastily, as if to interpose.
"It is not worth while chastising a wretch," said M. Hardy; "But I will
press your honest hand, sir--for you have had the courage to unmask a
traitor and a coward."

"Sir!" cried M. de Blessac, overcome with shame; "I am at your
orders--and--"

He could not finish. The sound of voices was heard behind the door, which
opened violently, and an aged woman entered, in spite of the efforts of
the servant, exclaiming in an agitated voice: "I tell you, I must speak
instantly to your master."

On hearing this voice, and at sight of the pale, weeping woman, M. Hardy,
forgetting M. de Blessac, Rodin, the infamous treachery, and all, fell
back a step, and exclaimed: "Madame Duparc! you here! What is the
matter?"

"Oh, sir! a great misfortune--"

"Margaret!" cried M. Hardy, in a tone of despair.

"She is gone, sir!"

"Gone!" repeated M. Hardy, as horror-struck as if a thunderbolt had
fallen at his feet. "Margaret gone!"

"All is discovered. Her mother took her away--three days ago!" said the