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Updated: May 6, 2025
Felicite, who was so brave, who had never in her life flinched from anything, not even from bloodshed, fled as if she was pursued, saying: "Come, come, Martine, we will find some other way; we will go look for an instrument." In the study they drew a breath of relief. Felicite looked in vain among the papers on Pascal's work-table for the genealogical tree, which she knew was usually there.
Pascal's heart thrilled with joy. "Fate favors me!" he said to himself. "If it hadn't been for Kami-Bey, who detained me a full quarter of an hour at Baron Trigault's, I should have found myself face to face with that miserable viscount, and then all would have been lost. But now I'm safe!" It was with this encouraging thought that he approached the house.
He seized Pascal's hands and pressed them with sorrowful tenderness, as if taking leave of a friend who is about to die. "Courage!" he whispered. Pascal fled like a madman. "Yes," he repeated, as he rushed along the Boulevard Saint-Michel, "that is the only thing left me to do."
Both were Frenchmen evidently; they wore billycock hats and carried stout sticks; and one of them, swarthy and almost brigandish of aspect, had the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in his buttonhole. It was easy to take these individuals for French detectives, and I hastily jumped to the conclusion that they were on 'M. Pascal's' track.
It was like the voices of the stars and the mountains, that whisper of that which is and which conquers, of That which conquers without sound or sign; Helen, I thought of that wonderful testament of Pascal's that has haunted me all my lifetime, those strange, wild, gasping words of a soul gone mad with awe, and beyond all utterance except a cry, 'Joy, joy, tears of joy! And I thought of a still more fearful story, I thought that it must have been such thunder-music that rang through the soul of the Master and swept Him away beyond scorn and pain, so that the men about Him seemed like jeering phantoms that He might scatter with His hand, before the glory of vision in which it was all one to live or die.
Pascal's "Provincial Letters," exposing the Jesuit system, were among the ablest writings of the age. Philosophy, poetry, science, history, art, were all making great progress, though there was a stateliness and formality in all that was said and done, redolent of the Spanish queen's etiquette and the fastidious refinement of the Hôtel Rambouillet.
The silence had become so complete, so profound, that Clotilde lifted her eyes for a moment from Pascal's face to look around the room. She saw only vague shadows the two tapers threw two yellow patches on the high ceiling.
If you would know their 'morale' read Pascal's 'Lettres Provinciales', in which it is very truly displayed from their own writings. Upon the whole, this is certain, that a society of which so little good is said, and so much ill believed, and that still not only subsists, but flourishes, must be a very able one.
"And who is this young girl?" she inquired. "What is her name?" "Marguerite." "Marguerite who?" Pascal's embarrassment increased. "She has no other name," he replied, hurriedly, "and she does not know her parents. She formerly lived in our street with her companion, Madame Leon, and an old female servant. It was there that I saw her for the first time.
"There is something essentially knightly," says Miss Preston, "in Pascal's cast of character, and it is singular that at the supreme crisis of his fate he assumes, as if unconsciously, the very phraseology of chivalry. It is altogether natural and becoming in the high-minded smith." M. Charles Nodier Jasmin's old friend was equally complimentary in his praises of Franconnette.
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