en revealed to him--had quitted France. He could have no doubt of
it. Margaret was gone to America. Her mother had exacted from her, in
expiation of her fault, that she should not even write to him one word of
farewell--to him, for whom she had sacrificed her duty as a wife.
Margaret had obeyed.

Besides, she had often said to him: "Between my mother and you, I should
not hesitate."

She had not hesitated. There was therefore no hope, not the slightest;
even if an ocean had not separated him from Margaret, he knew enough of
her blind submission to her mother, to be certain that all relations
between them were broken off forever. It is well. He will no longer
reckon upon this heart--his last refuge. The two roots of his life have
been torn up and broken, with the same blow, the same day, almost at the
same moment. What then remains for thee, poor sensitive plant, as thy
tender mother used to call thee? What remains to console thee for the
loss of this last love--this last friendship, so infamously crushed? Oh!
there remains for thee that one corner of the earth, created after the
image of thy mind that little colony, so peaceful and flourishing, where,
thanks to thee, labor brings with it joy and recompense. These worthy
artisans, whom thou hast made happy, good, and grateful, will not fail
thee. That also is a great and holy affection; let it be thy shelter in
the midst of this frightful wreck of all thy most sacred convictions! The
calm of that cheerful and pleasant retreat, the sight of the unequalled
happiness of thy dependents, will soothe thy poor, suffering soul, which
now seems to live only for suffering. Come! you will soon reach the top
of the hill, from which you can see afar, in the plain below, that
paradise of workmen, of which you are the presiding divinity.

M. Hardy had reached the summit of the hill. At that moment the
conflagration, repressed for a short time, burst forth with redoubled
fury from the Common Dwelling-house, which it had now reached. A bright
streak, at first white, then red, then copper-colored, illuminated the
distant horizon. M. Hardy looked at it with a sort of incredulous, almost
idiotic stupor. Suddenly, an immense column of flame shot up in the thick
of a cloud of smoke, accompanied by a shower of sparks, and streamed
towards the sky, casting a bright reflection over all the country, even
to M. Hardy's feet. The violence of the north wind, driving the flames in
waves before it,