第511章

And now imagine M.Hardy carried wounded into this house; while his heart, torn by bitter grief and the sense of horrible treachery, bled even faster than his external injuries.Attended with the utmost care, and thanks to the acknowledged skill of Dr.Baleinier, M.Hardy soon recovered from the hurts he had received when he threw himself into the embers of his burning factory.Yet, in order to favor the projects of the reverend fathers, a drug, harmless enough in its effects, but destined to act for a time upon the mind of the patient, and often employed for that purpose in similar important cases by the pious doctor, was administered to Hardy, and had kept him pretty long in a state of mental torpor.To a soul agonized by cruel deceptions, it appears an inestimable benefit to be plunged into that kind of torpor, which at least prevents one from dwelling upon the past.

Hardy resigned himself entirely to this profound apathy, and at length came to regard it as the supreme good.Thus do unfortunate wretches, tortured by cruel diseases, accept with gratitude the opiate which kills them slowly, but which at least deadens the sense of pain.

In sketching the portrait of M.Hardy, we tried to give some idea of the exquisite delicacy of his tender soul, of his painful susceptibility with regard to anything base or wicked, and of his extreme goodness, uprightness, and generosity.We now allude to these admirable qualities, because we must observe, that with him, as with almost all who possess them, they were not, and could not be, united with an energetic and resolute character.Admirably persevering in good deeds, the influence of this excellent man, was insinuating rather than commanding; it was not by the bold energy and somewhat overbearing will, peculiar to other men of great and noble heart, that Hardy had realized the prodigy of his Common Dwelling-house; it was by affectionate persuasion, for with him mildness took the place of force.At sight of any baseness or injustice, he did not rouse himself, furious and threatening; but he suffered intense pain.He did not boldly attack the criminal, but he turned away from him in pity and sorrow.And then his loving heart, so full of feminine delicacy, had an irresistible longing for the blessed contact of dear affections; they alone could keep it alive.Even as a poor, frail bird dies with the cold, when it can no longer lie close to its brethren, and receive and communicate the sweet warmth of the maternal nest.And now this sensitive organization, this extremely susceptible nature, receives blow after blow from sorrows and deceptions, one of which would suffice to shake, if it did not conquer, the firmest and most resolute character.Hardy's best friend has infamously betrayed him.His adored mistress has abandoned him.

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.