ds 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 shamefu