by Eugène Sue
The house which he had founded for the benefit of his workmen, whom he loved as brethren, is reduced to a heap of ashes. What then happens? All the springs of his soul are at once broken. Too feeble to resist such frightful attacks, too fatally deceived to seek refuge in other affections, too much discouraged to think of laying the first stone of any new edifice — this poor heart, isolated from every salutary influence, finds oblivion of the world and of itself in a kind of gloomy torpor. And if some remaining instincts of life and affection, at long intervals, endeavored to rouse themselves within him, and if, half-opening his mind’s eye, which he had kept closed against the present, the past, and the future, Hardy looks around him — what does he see? Only these sentences, so full of terrible despair:
“Thou art nothing but dust and ashes. Grief and tears art thy portion. Believe not in any son of man. There are no such things as friendship or ties of kindred. All human affections are false. Die in the morning, and thou wilt be forgotten before night. Be humble — despise thyself — and let others despise thee. Think not, reason not, live not — but commit thy fate to the hands of a superior, who will think and reason for thee. Weep, suffer, think upon death. Yes, death! always death — that should be thy thought when thou thinkest — but it is better not to think at all. Let a feeling of ceaseless woe prepare thy way to heaven. It is only by sorrow that we are welcome to the terrible God whom we adore!”
Such were the consolations offered to this unfortunate man. Affrighted, he again closed his eyes, and fell back into his lethargy. As for leaving this gloomy retreat, he could not, or rather he did not desire to do so. He had lost the power of will; and then, it must be confessed, he had finished by getting accustomed to this house, and liked it well — they paid him such discreet attentions, and yet left him so much alone with his grief — there reigned all around such a death-like silence, which harmonized closely with the silence of his heart; and that was now the tomb of his last love, last friendship, last hope. All energy was dead within him! Then began that slow, but inevitable transformation, so judiciously foreseen by Rodin, who directed the whole of this machination, even in its smallest details. At first alarmed by the dreadful maxims which surrounded him, M. Hardy had at length accustomed himself to read them over almost mechanically, just as the captive, in his mournful hours of leisure, counts the nails in the door of his prison, or the bars of the grated window. This was already a great point gained by the reverend fathers.
And soon his weakened mind was struck with the apparent correctness of these false and melancholy aphorisms.
Thus he read: “Do not count upon the affection of any human creature” — and he had himself been shamefully betrayed.
“Man is born to sorrow and despair” — and he was himself despairing.
“There is no rest save in the cessation of thought” — and the slumber of his mind had brought some relief to his pain.
Peepholes, skillfully concealed by the hangings and in the wainscoting of these apartments, enabled the reverend fathers at all times to see and hear the boarders, and above all to observe their countenance and manner, when they believed themselves to be alone. Every exclamation of grief which escaped Hardy in his gloomy solitude, was repeated to Father d’Aigrigny by a mysterious listener. The reverend father, following scrupulously Rodin’s instructions, had at first visited his boarder very rarely. We have said, that when Father d’Aigrigny wished it, he could display an almost irresistible power of charming, and accordingly he threw all his tact and skill into the interviews he had with Hardy, when he came from time to time to inquire after his health. Informed of everything by his spies, and aided by his natural sagacity, he soon saw all the use that might be made of the physical and moral prostration of the boarder. Certain beforehand that Hardy would not take the hint, he spoke to him frequently of the gloom of the house, advising him affectionately to leave it, if he felt oppressed by its monotony, or at all events to seek beyond its walls for some pleasure and amusement. To speak of pleasure and amusement to this unfortunate man, was in his present state to insure a refusal, and so it of course happened. Father d’Aigrigny did not at first try to gain the recluse’s confidence, nor did he speak to him of sorrow; but every time he came, he appeared to take such a tender interest in him, and showed it by a few simple and well timed words. By degrees, these interviews, at first so rare, became more frequent and longer. Endowed with a flow of honeyed, insinuating, and persuasive eloquence, Father d’Aigrigny naturally took for his theme those gloomy maxims, to which Hardy’s attention was now so often directed.
Supple, prudent, skillful, knowing that the hermit had hitherto professed that generous natural religion which teaches the grateful adoration of God, the love of humanity, the worship of what is just and good, and which, disdaining dogmas, professes the same veneration for Marcus Aurelius as for Confucius, for Plato as for Christ, for Moses as for Lycurgus — Father d’Aigrigny did not at first attempt to convert him, but began by incessantly reminding him of the abominable deceptions practised upon him; and, instead of describing such treachery as an exception in life — instead of trying to calm, encourage, and revive his drooping soul — instead of exhorting Hardy to seek oblivion and consolation in the discharge of his duties toward humanity, towards his brethren, whom he had previously loved and succored — Father d’Aigrigny strove to inflame the bleeding wounds of the unfortunate man, painted the human race in the most atrocious blackness, and, by declaring all men treacherous, ungrateful, wicked, succeeded in rendering his despair incurable. Having attained this object, the Jesuit took another step. Knowing Hardy’s admirable goodness of heart, and profiting by the weakened state of his mind, he spoke to him of the consolation to be derived by a man overwhelmed with sorrow, from the belief that every one of his tears, instead of being unfruitful, was in fact agreeable to God, and might aid in the salvation of souls — the belief, as the reverend father adroitly added, that by faith alone can sorrow be made useful to humanity, and acceptable to Divinity.
Whatever impiety, whatever atrocious Machiavelism there was in these detestable maxims, which make of a loving-kind Deity a being delighted with the tears of his creatures, was thus skillfully concealed from Hardy’s eyes, whose generous instincts were still alive. Soon did this loving and tender soul, whom unworthy priests were driving to a sort of moral suicide, find a mournful charm in the fiction, that his sorrows would at least be profitable to other men. It was at first only a fiction; but the enfeebled mind which takes pleasure in such a fable, finishes by receiving it as a reality, and by degrees will submit to the consequences. Such was Hardy’s moral and physical state, when, by means of a servant who had been bought over, he received from Agricola Baudoin a letter requesting an interview. Alone, the workman could not have broken the band of the Jesuit’s pleadings, but he was accompanied by Gabriel, whose eloquence and reasonings were of a most convincing nature to a spirit like Hardy’s.
It is unnecessary to point out to the reader, with what dignified reserve Gabriel had confined himself to the most generous means of rescuing Hardy from the deadly influence of the reverend fathers. It was repugnant to the great soul of the young missionary, to stoop to a revelation of the odious plots of these priests. He would only have taken this extreme course, had his powerful and sympathetic words have failed to have any effect on Hardy’s blindness. About a quarter of an hour had elapsed since Gabriel’s departure, when the servant appointed to wait on this boarder of the reverend fathers entered and delivered to him a letter.
“From whom is this?” asked Hardy.
“From a boarder in the house, sir,” answered the servant bowing.
This man had a crafty hypocritical face; he wore his hair combed over his forehead, spoke in a low voice, and always cast clown his eyes. Waiting the answer, he joined his hands, and began to twiddle his thumbs. Hardy opened the letter, and read as follows:
“SIR, — I have only just heard, by mere chance, that you also inhabit this respectable house: a
long illness, and the retirement in which I live, will explain my ignorance of your being so near. Though we have only met once, sir, the circumstance which led to that meeting was of so serious a nature, that I cannot think you have forgotten it.”
Hardy stopped, and tasked his memory for an explanation, and not finding anything to put him on the right track, he continued to read:
“This circumstance excited in me a feeling of such deep and respectful sympathy for you, sir, that I cannot resist my anxious desire to wait upon you, particularly as I learn, that you intend leaving this house to day — a piece of information I have just derived from the excellent and worthy Abbe Gabriel, one of the men I most love, esteem, and reverence. May I venture to hope, sir, that just at the moment of quitting our common retreat to return to the world, you will deign to receive favorably the request, however intrusive, of a poor old man, whose life will henceforth be passed in solitude, and who cannot therefore have any prospect of meeting you, in that vortex of society which he has abandoned forever. Waiting the honor of your answer, I beg you to accept, sir, the assurance of the sentiments of high esteem with which I remain, sir, with the deepest respect,
“Your very humble and most obedient servant,
“RODIN.”
After reading this letter and the signature of the writer, Hardy remained for some time in deep thought, without being able to recollect the name of Rodin, or to what serious circumstances he alluded.
After a silence of some duration, he said to the servant “M. Rodin gave you this letter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And who is M. Rodin?”
“A good old gentleman, who is just recovering from a long illness, that almost carried him off. Lately, he has been getting better, but he is still so weak and melancholy, that it makes one sad to see him. It is a great pity, for there is not a better and more worthy gentleman in the house — unless it be you, sir,” added the servant, bowing with an air of flattering respect.
“M. Rodin;” said Hardy, thoughtfully. “It is singular, that I should not remember the name nor any circumstance connected with it.”
“If you will give me your answer, sir,” resumed the servant, “I will take it to M. Rodin. He is now with Father d’Aigrigny, to whom he is bidding farewell.”
“Farewell?”
“Yes, sir, the post-horses have just come.”
“Post-horses for whom?” asked Hardy.
“For Father d’Aigrigny, sir.”
“He is going on a journey then!” said Hardy, with some surprise.
“Oh! he will not, I think be long absent,” said the servant, with a confidential air, “for the reverend father takes no one with him, and but very light luggage. No doubt, the reverend father will come to say farewell to you, sir, before he starts. But what answer shall I give M. Rodin?”
The letter, just received, was couched in such polite terms — it spoke of Gabriel with so much respect — that Hardy, urged moreover by a natural curiosity, and seeing no motive to refuse this interview before quitting the house, said to the servant: “Please tell M. Rodin, that if he will give himself the trouble to come to me, I shall be glad to see him.”
“I will let him know immediately, sir,” answered the servant, bowing as he left the room.
When alone, Hardy, while wondering who this M. Rodin could be, began to make some slight preparations for his departure. For nothing in the world would he have passed another night in this house; and, in order to keep up his courage, he recalled every instant the mild, evangelical language of Gabriel, just as the superstitious recite certain litanies, with a view of escaping from temptation.
The servant soon returned, and said: “M. Rodin is here, sir.”
“Beg him to walk in.”
Rodin entered, clad in his long black dressing-gown, and with his old silk cap in his hand. The servant then withdrew. The day was just closing. Hardy rose to meet Rodin, whose features he did not at first distinguish. But as the reverend father approached the window, Hardy looked narrowly at him for an instant, and then uttered an exclamation, wrung from him by surprise and painful remembrance. But, recovering himself from this first movement, Hardy said to the Jesuit, in an agitated voice: “You here, sir? Oh, you are right! It was indeed a very serious circumstance that first brought us together.”
“Oh, my dear sir!” said Rodin, in a kindly and unctuous tone; “I was sure you would not have forgotten me.”
CHAPTER XLIII. PRAYER.
IT WILL DOUBTLESS be remembered that Rodin had gone (although a stranger to Hardy) to visit him at his factory, and inform him of De Blessac’s shameful treachery — a dreadful blow, which had only preceded by a few moments a second no less horrible misfortune; for it was in the presence of Rodin that Hardy had learned the unexpected departure of the woman he adored. Painful to him must have been the sudden appearance of Rodin. Yes, thanks to the salutary influence of Gabriel’s counsels, he recovered himself by degrees, and the contraction of his features being succeeded by a melancholy calm, he said to Rodin: “I did not indeed expect to meet you, sir, in this house.”
“Alas, sir!” answered Rodin, with a sigh, “I did not expect to come hither, probably to end my days beneath this roof, when I went, without being acquainted with you, but only as one honest man should serve another, to unveil to you a great infamy.”
“Indeed, sir, you then rendered me a true service; perhaps, in that painful moment, I did not fully express my gratitude; for, at the same moment in which you revealed to me the treachery of M. de Blessac—”
“You were overwhelmed by another piece of painful intelligence,” said Rodin, interrupting M. Hardy; “I shall never forget the sudden arrival of that poor woman, who, pale and affrighted, and without considering my presence, came to inform you that a person who was exceedingly dear to you had quitted Paris abruptly.”
“Yes, sir; and, without stopping to thank you, I set out immediately,” answered Hardy, with a mournful air.
“Do you know, sir,” said Rodin, after a moment’s silence, “that there are sometimes very strange coincidences?”
“To what do you allude, sir?”
“While I went to inform you that you were betrayed in so infamous a manner — I was myself—”
Rodin paused, as if unable to control his deep emotion, and his countenance wore the expression of such overpowering grief that Hardy said to him, with interest: “What ails you, sir?”
“Forgive me,” replied Rodin, with a bitter smile. “Thanks to the ghostly counsels of the angelic Abbe Gabriel, I have reached a sort of resignation. Still, there are certain memories which affect me with the most acute pain. I told you,” resumed Rodin, in a firmer voice, “or was going to tell you, that the very day after that on which I informed you of the treachery practised against you, I was myself the victim of a frightful deception. An adopted son — a poor unfortunate child, whom I had brought up—” He paused again, drew his trembling hand over his eyes, and added: “Pardon me, sir, for speaking of matters which must be indifferent to you. Excuse the intrusive sorrow of a poor, broken hearted old man!”
“I have suffered too much myself, sir, to be indifferent to any kind of sorrow,” replied Hardy. “Besides, you are no stranger to me — for you did me a real service — and we both agree in our veneration for the same young priest.”
“The Abbe Gabriel!” cried Rodin, interrupting Hardy; “ah, sir! he is my deliverer, my benefactor. If you knew all his care and devotion, during my long illness, caused by intense grief — if you knew the ineffable sweetness of his counsels—”
“I know them, sir,” cried Hardy; “oh, yes! I know how salutary is the influence.”
“In his mouth, sir, the precepts of religion are full of mildness,” resumed Rodin, with excitement. “Do they not heal and console? do they not make us love and hope, instead of fear and tremble?”
“Alas, sir! in this very house,” said Hardy, “I have been able to make the comparison.”
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��I was happy enough,” said Rodin, “to have the angelic Abbe Gabriel for my confessor, or, rather, my confidant.”
“Yes,” replied Hardy, “for he prefers confidence to confession.”
“How well you know him!” said Rodin, in a tone of the utmost simplicity. Then he resumed: “He is not a man but an angel. His words would convert the most hardened sinner. Without being exactly impious, I had myself lived in the profession of what is called Natural Religion; but the angelic Abbe Gabriel has, by degrees, fixed my wavering belief, given it body and soul, and, in fact, endowed me with faith.”
“Yes! he is a truly Christian priest — a priest of love and pardon!” cried Hardy.
“What you say is perfectly true,” replied Rodin; “for I came here almost mad with grief, thinking only of the unhappy boy who had repaid my paternal goodness with the most monstrous ingratitude, and sometimes I yielded to violent bursts of despair, and sometimes sank into a state of mournful dejection, cold as the grave itself. But, suddenly, the Abbe Gabriel appeared — and the darkness fled before the dawning of a new day.”