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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 1,533 pages of information about The Wandering Jew Complete.

“These adulterous lamentations are not deserving of pity,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, with contempt.  “We will see about that; M. de Bressac may still be useful to us.  But let us hear this letter of M. Hardy, that impious and republican manufacturer, worthy descendant of an accursed race, whom it is of the first importance to keep away.”

“Here is M. Hardy’s letter,” resumed Rodin.  “To-morrow, we will send it to the person to whom it is addressed.”  Rodin read as follows: 

Toulouse, February the 10th.

“At length I find a moment to write to you, and to explain the cause of the sudden departure which, without alarming, must at least have astonished you.  I write also to ask you a service; the facts may be stated in a few words.  I have often spoken to you of Felix de Bressac, one of my boyhood mates, though not nearly so old as myself.  We have always loved each other tenderly, and have shown too many proofs of mutual affection not to count upon one another.  He is a brother to me.  You know all I mean by that expression.  Well—­a few days ago, he wrote to me from Toulouse, where he was to spend some time:  ’If you love me, come; I have the greatest need of you.  At once!  Your consolations may perhaps give me the courage to live.  If you arrive too late—­why, forgive me—­and think sometimes of him who will be yours to the last.’  Judge of my grief and fear on receipt of the above.  I seat instantly for post-horses.  My old foreman, whom I esteem and revere (the father of General Simon), hearing that I was going to the south, begged me to take him with me, and to leave him for some days in the department of the Creuse, to examine some ironworks recently founded there.  I consented willingly to this proposition, as I should thus at least have some one to whom I could pour out the grief and anxiety which had been caused by this letter from Bressac.  I arrive at Toulouse; they tell me that he left the evening before, taking arms with him, a prey to the most violent despair.  It was impossible at first to tell whither he had gone; after two days, some indications, collected with great trouble, put me upon his track.  At last, after a thousand adventures, I found him in a miserable village.  Never—­no, never, have I seen despair like this.  No violence, but a dreadful dejection, a savage silence.  At first, he almost repulsed me; then, this horrible agony having reached its height, he softened by degrees, and, in about a quarter of an hour, threw himself into my arms, bathed in tears.  Beside him were his loaded pistols:  one day later, and all would have been over.  I cannot tell you the reason of his despair; I am not at liberty to do so; but it did not greatly astonish me.  Now there is a complete cure to effect.  We must calm, and soothe, and heal this poor soul, which has been cruelly wounded.  The hand of friendship is alone equal to this delicate task, and I have good hope of success.  I have therefore persuaded him to travel for some time; movement

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