“‘Such is my last will. I leave its execution to the superintending care

of Providence. God will protect the cause of love, peace, union, and

liberty.

“‘This mystic testament,(20) having been freely made by me, and written

entirely with my own hand, I intend and will its scrupulous execution

both in spirit and the letter.

“‘This 13th day of February, 1682, at one o’clock in the afternoon.

“‘MARIUS DE RENNEPONT.’”

As the notary had proceeded with the reading of the testament, Gabriel

was successively agitated by divers painful impressions. At first, as

we have before said, he was struck with the singular fatality which

restored this immense fortune, derived from a victim of the Society of

Jesus, to the hands of that very association, by the renewal of his

deed of gift. Then, as his charitable and lofty soul began fully to

comprehend the admirable tendency of the association so earnestly

recommended by Marius de Rennepont, he reflected with bitter remorse,

that, in consequence of his act of renunciation, and of the absence of

any other heir, this great idea would never be realized, and a fortune,

far more considerable than had even been expected, would fall to

the share of an ill-omened society, in whose hands it would become a

terrible means of action. At the same time, it must be said that the

soul of Gabriel was too pure and noble to feel the slightest personal

regret, on hearing the great probable value of the property he had

renounced. He rejoiced rather in withdrawing his mind, by a touching

contrast, from the thought of the wealth he had abandoned, to the humble

parsonage, where he hoped to pass the remainder of his life, in the

practice of most evangelical virtue.

These ideas passed confusedly through his brain. The sight of that

woman’s portrait, the dark revelations contained in the testament, the

grandeur of the views exhibited in this last will of M. de Rennepont,

all these extraordinary incidents had thrown Gabriel into a sort of

stupor, in which he was still plunged, when Samuel offered the key

of the register to the notary, saying: “You will find, sir, in this

register, the exact statement of the sums in my possession, derived from

the investment and accumulation of the one hundred and fifty thousand

francs, entrusted to my grandfather by M. Marius de Rennepont.”

“Your grandfather!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, with the utmost surprise;

“it is then your family that has always had the management of this

property.”

“Yes, sir; and, in a few minutes, my wife will bring hither the casket

which contains the vouchers.”

“And to what sum does this property amount?” asked Rodin, with an air of

the most complete indifference.

“As M. Notary may convince himself by this statement,” replied Samuel,

with perfect frankness, and as if he were only talking of the original

one hundred and fifty thousand francs, “I have in my possession various

current securities to the amount of two hundred and twelve millions, one

hundred and seventy--”

“You say, sir’” cried Father d’Aigrigny, without giving Samuel time to

finish, for the odd money did not at all interest his reverence.

“Yes, the sum!” added Rodin, in an agitated voice, and, for the first

time, perhaps, in his life losing his presence of mind; “the sum--the

sum--the sum!”

“I say, sir,” resumed the old man, “that I hold securities for two

hundred and twelve millions, one hundred and seventy-five thousand

francs, payable to self or bearer--as you may soon convince yourself, M.

Notary, for here is my wife with the casket.”

Indeed, at this moment, Bathsheba entered, holding in her arms the cedar

wood chest, which contained the securities in question; she placed it

upon the table, and withdrew, after exchanging an affectionate glance

with Samuel. When the latter declared the enormous amount of the sum in

hand, his words were received with silent stupor. All the actors in

this scene, except himself, believed that they were the sport of some

delusion. Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin had counted upon forty millions.

This sum, in itself enormous, was more than quintupled. Gabriel, when he

heard the notary read those passages in the testament, which spoke of

a princely fortune, being quite ignorant of the prodigious effects of

eligible investments, had valued the property at some three or

four millions. He was, therefore, struck dumb with amazement at the

exorbitant amount named. Notwithstanding his admirable disinterestedness

and scrupulous honor, he felt dazzled and giddy at the thought, that

all these immense riches might have belonged to him--alone. The notary,

almost as much amazed as Gabriel, examined the statement, and could

hardly believe his eyes. The Jew also remained mute, and seemed

painfully absorbed in thought, that no other heir made his appearance.

In the depth of this profound silence, the clock in the next room began

slowly to strike twelve. Samuel started, and heaved a deep sigh. A

few seconds more, and the fatal term would be at an end. Rodin, Father

d’Aigrigny, Gabriel, and the notary, were all under the influence of

such complete surprise, that not one of them even remarked how strange

it was to hear the sound of this clock.

“Noon!” cried Rodin, as, by an involuntary movement, he hastily placed

his two hands upon the casket, as if to take possession of it.

“At last!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, with an expression of joy, triumph

transport, which it is impossible to describe. Then he added, as he

threw himself into Gabriel’s arms, whom he embraced warmly: “Oh, my dear

son! how the poor will bless you! You will be a second Vincent de Paul.

You will be canonized, I promise you.”

“Let us first thank Providence,” said Rodin, in a grave and solemn

tone, as he fell upon his knees, “let us thank Providence, that He has

permitted so much wealth to be employed for His glory!”’

Father d’Aigrigny, having again embraced Gabriel, took him by the hand,

and said: “Rodin is right. Let us kneel, my dear son, and render thanks

to Providence!”

So saying, Father d’Aigrigny knelt down, dragging Gabriel with him, and

the latter, confused and giddy with so many precipitate events, yielded

mechanically to the impulse. It was the last stroke of twelve when they

all rose together.

Then said the notary, in a slightly agitated voice, for there was

something extraordinary and solemn in this scene--

“No other heir of M. Marius de Rennepont having presented himself,

before noon on this day, I execute the will of the testator, by

declaring, in the name of law and justice, that M. Francois Marie

Gabriel de Rennepont, here present, is the sole heir and possessor of

all the estate, real and personal, bequeathed under the said will;

all which estate the said Gabriel de Rennepont, priest, has freely and

voluntarily made over by deed of gift to Frederic Emanuel de Bordeville,

Marquis d’Aigrigny, priest, who has accepted the same, and is,

therefore, the only legal holder of such property, in the room of the

said Gabriel de Rennepont, by virtue of the said deed, drawn up and

engrossed by me this morning, and signed in my presence by the said

Gabriel de Rennepont and Frederic d’Aigrigny.”

At this moment, the sound of loud voices was heard from the garden.

Bathsheba entered hastily, and said to her husband with an agitated air:

“Samuel--a soldier--who insists--”

She had not time to finish. Dagobert appeared at the door of the Red

Room. The soldier was fearfully pale. He seemed almost fainting; his

left arm was in a sling, and he leaned upon Agricola. At sight of

Dagobert, the pale and flabby eyelids of Rodin were suddenly distended,

as if all the blood in his body had flowed towards the head. Then the

socius threw himself upon the casket, with the haste of ferocious rage

and avidity, as if he were resolved to cover it with his body, and

defend it at the peril of his life.

(20) This term is sanctioned by legal usage.

CHAPTER XXV. THE DEED OF GIFT.

Father d’Aigrigny did not recognize Dagobert, and had never seen

Agricola. He could not therefore, at first explain the kind of angry

alarm exhibited by Rodin. But the reverend father understood it all,

when he heard Gabriel utter a cry of joy, and saw him rush into the

arms of the smith, exclaiming: “My brother! my second father--oh! it is

heaven that sends you to me.”

Having pressed Gabriel’s hand, Dagobert advanced towards Father

d’Aigrigny, with a rapid but unsteady step. As he remarked the soldier’s

threatening countenance, the reverend father, strong in his acquired

rights, and feeling that, since noon, he was at home here; drew back a

little, and said imperiously to the veteran: “Who are you, sir!--What do

you want here?”

Instead of answering, the soldier continued to advance, then, stopping

just facing Father d’Aigrigny, he looked at him for a second with such

an astounding mixture of curiosity, disdain, aversion, and audacity,

that the ex-colonel of hussars quailed before the pale face and glowing

eye of the veteran. The notary and Samuel, struck with surprise,

remained mute spectators of this scene, while Agricola and Gabriel

followed with anxiety Dagobert’s least movements. As for Rodin, he

pretended to be leaning on the casket, in order still to cover it with

his body.

Surmounting at length the embarrassment caused by the steadfast look

of the soldier, Father d’Aigrigny raised his head, and repeated. “I ask

you, sir, who you are, and what you want?”

“Do you not recognize me?” said Dagobert, hardly able to restrain

himself.

“No, sir--”

“In truth,” returned the soldier, with profound contempt, “You cast

down your eyes for shame when, at Leipsic, you fought for the Russians

against the French, and when General Simon, covered with wounds,

answered you, renegade that you were, when you asked him for his sword,

‘I do not surrender to a traitor!’--and dragged himself along to one of

the Russian grenadiers, to whom he yielded up his weapon. Well! there

was then a wounded soldier by the side of General Simon--I am he.”

“In brief, sir, what do you want?” said Father d’Aigrigny, hardly, able

to control himself.

“I have come to unmask you--you, that are as false and hateful a priest,

as Gabriel is admirable and beloved by all.”

“Sir!” cried the marquis, becoming livid with rage and emotion.

“I tell you, that you are infamous,” resumed the soldier, with still

greater force. “To rob Marshal Simon’s daughters, and Gabriel, and

Mdlle. de Cardoville of their inheritance, you have had recourse to the

most shameful means.”

“What do you say?” cried Gabriel. “The daughters of Marshal Simon?”

“Are your relations, my dear boy, as is also that worthy Mdlle. de

Cardoville, the benefactress of Agricola. Now, this priest,” he added,

pointing to Father d’Aigrigny, “has had them shut up--the one as mad,

in a lunatic asylum--the others in a convent. As for you, my dear boy, I

did not hope to find you here, believing that they would have prevented

you, like the others, from coming hither this morning. But, thank God,

you are here, and I arrive in time. I should have been sooner, but for

my wound. I have lost so much blood, that I have done nothing but faint

all the morning.”

“Truly!” cried Gabriel, with uneasiness. “I had not remarked your arm in

a sling. What is the wound?”

At a sign from Agricola, Dagobert answered: “Nothing; the consequence of

a fall. But here I am, to unveil many infamies.”

It is impossible to paint the curiosity, anguish, surprise, or fear,

of the different actors in this scene, as they listened to Dagobert’s

threatening words. But the most overcome was Gabriel. His angelic

countenance was distorted, his knees trembled under him. Struck by the

communication of Dagobert which revealed the existence of other heirs,

he was unable to speak for some time; at length, he cried out, in a tone

of despair: “And it is I--oh, God! I--who am the cause of the spoliation

of this family!”

“You, brother?” exclaimed Agricola.

“Did they not wish to rob you also?” added Dagobert.

“The will,” cried Gabriel, with increasing agony, “gave the property to

those of the heirs that should appear before noon.”

“Well?” said Dagobert, alarmed at the emotion of the young priest.

“Twelve o’clock has struck,” resumed the latter. “Of all the family, I

alone was present. Do you understand it now? The term is expired. The

heirs have been thrust aside by me!”

“By you!” said Dagobert, stammering with joy. “By you, my brave boy!

then all is well.”

“But--”

“All is well,” resumed Dagobert, radiant with delight. “You will share

with the others--I know you.”

“But all this property I have irrevocably, made over to another,” cried

Gabriel, in despair.

“Made over the property!” cried Dagobert, quite petrified. “To whom,

then?--to whom?”

“To this gentleman,” said Gabriel, pointing to Father d’Aigrigny.

“To him!” exclaimed Dagobert, overwhelmed by the news; “to him--the

renegade--who has always been the evil genius of this family!”

“But, brother,” cried Agricola, “did you then know your claim to this

inheritance?”

“No,” answered the young priest, with deep dejection; “no--I only

learned it this morning, from Father d’Aigrigny. He told me, that he

had only recently been informed of my rights, by family papers long ago

found upon me, and sent by our mother to her confessor.”

A sudden light seemed to dawn upon the mind of the smith, as he

exclaimed: “I understand it all now. They discovered in these papers,

that you would one day have a chance of becoming rich. Therefore, they

interested themselves about you--therefore, they took you into their

college, where we could never see you--therefore, they deceived you in

your vocation by shameful falsehoods, to force you to become a priest,

and to lead you to make this deed of gift. Oh, sir!” resumed Agricola,

turning towards Father d’Aigrigny, with indignation, “my father is

right--such machinations are indeed infamous!”

During this scene, the reverend father and his socius, at first alarmed

and shaken in their audacity, had by degrees recovered all their

coolness. Rodin, still leaning upon the casket, had said a few words in

a low voice to Father d’Aigrigny. So that when Agricola, carried away by

his indignation, reproached the latter with his infamous machinations,

he bowed his head humbly, and answered: “We are bound to forgive

injuries, and offer them to the Lord as a mark of our humility.”

Dagobert, confounded at all he had just heard, felt his reason begin to

wander. After so much anxiety, his strength failed beneath this new and

terrible blow. Agricola’s just and sensible words, in connection with

certain passages of the testament, at once enlightened Gabriel as to

the views of Father d’Aigrigny, in taking charge of his education, and

leading him to join the Society of Jesus. For the first time in his

life, Gabriel was able to take in at a glance all the secret springs of

the dark intrigue, of which he had been the victim. Then, indignation

and despair surmounting his natural timidity, the missionary, with

flashing eye, and cheeks inflamed with noble wrath, exclaimed, as he

addressed Father d’Aigrigny: “So, father, when you placed me in one of

your colleges, it was not from any feeling of kindness or commiseration,

but only in the hope of bringing me one day to renounce in favor of your

Order my share in this inheritance; and it did not even suffice you

to sacrifice me to your cupidity, but I must also be rendered the

involuntary instrument of a shameful spoliation! If only I were

concerned--if you only coveted my claim to all this wealth, I should not

complain. I am the minister of a religion which honors and sanctifies

poverty; I have consented to the donation in your favor, and I have not,

I could never have any claim upon it. But property is concerned which

belong to poor orphans, brought from a distant exile by my adopted

father, and I will not see them wronged. But the benefactress of my

adopted brother is concerned, and I will not see her wronged. But

the last will of a dying man is concerned, who, in his ardent love

of humanity, bequeathed to his descendants an evangelic mission--an

admirable mission of progress, love, union, liberty--and I will not

see this mission blighted in its bud. No, no; I tell you, that this his

mission shall be accomplished, though I have to cancel the donation I

have made.”

On these words, Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin looked at each other with a

slight shrug of the shoulders. At a sign from the socius, the reverend

father began to speak with immovable calmness, in a slow and sanctified

voice, keeping eyes constantly cast down: “There are many incidents

connected with this inheritance of M. de Rennepont, which appear very

complicated--many phantoms, which seem un usually menacing--and yet,

nothing could be really more simple and natural. Let us proceed in

regular order. Let us put aside all these calumnious imputations; we

will return to them afterwards. M. Gabriel de Rennepont--and I humbly

beg him to contradict me, if I depart in the least instance from the

exact truth--M. Gabriel de Rennepont, in acknowledgment of the care

formerly bestowed on him by the society to which I have the honor to

belong, made over to me, as its representative, freely and voluntarily,

all the property that might come to him one day, the value of which was

unknown to him, as well as to myself.”

Father d’Aigrigny here looked at Gabriel, as if appealing to him for the

truth of this statement.

“It is true,” said the young priest: “I made this donation freely.”

“This morning, in consequence of a private conversation, which I will

not repeat--and in this, I am certain beforehand, of the Abbe Gabriel--”

“True,” replied Gabriel, generously; “the subject of this conversation

is of little importance.”

“It was then, in consequence of this conversation that the Abbe Gabriel

manifested the desire to confirm this donation--not in my favor, for I

have little to do with earthly wealth--but in favor of the sacred and

charitable works of which our Company is the trustee. I appeal to the

honor of M. Gabriel to declare if he have not engaged himself towards

us, not only by a solemn oath, but by a perfectly legal act, executed in

presence of M. Dumesnil, here present?”

“It is all true,” answered Gabriel.

“The deed was prepared by me,” added the notary.

“But Gabriel could only give you what belonged to him,” cried Dagobert.

“The dear boy never supposed that you were making use of him to rob

other people.”

“Do me the favor, sir, to allow me to explain myself,” replied Father

d’Aigrigny, courteously; “you can afterwards make answer.”

Dagobert repressed with difficulty his painful impatience. The reverend

father continued: “The Abbe Gabriel has therefore, by the double

engagement of an oath and a legal act, confirmed his donation. Much

more,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny: “when to his great astonishment and

to ours, the enormous amount of the inheritance became known, the Abbe

Gabriel, faithful to his own admirable generosity, far from repenting of

his gifts, consecrated them once more by a pious movement of gratitude

to Providence--for M. Notary will doubtless remember, that, after

embracing the Abbe Gabriel with transport, and telling him that he was

a second Vincent de Paul in charity, I took him by the hand, and we both

knelt down together to thank heaven for having inspired him with the

thought too offer these immense riches to the Greater Glory of the

Lord.”

“That is true, also,” said Gabriel, honestly; “so long as myself was

concerned, though I might be astounded for a moment by the revelation of

so enormous a fortune, I did not think for an instant of cancelling the

donation I had freely made.”

“Under these circumstances,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, “the hour fixed

for the settlement of the inheritance having struck, and Abbe Gabriel

being the only heir that presented himself, he became necessarily

the only legitimate possessor of this immense wealth--enormous, no

doubt--and charity makes me rejoice that it is enormous, for, thanks to

it, many miseries will be relieved and many tears wiped away. But,

all on a sudden, here comes this gentleman,” said Father d’Aigrigny,

pointing to Dagobert; “and, under some delusion, which I forgive from

the bottom of my soul, and which I am sure he will himself regret,

accuses me, with insults and threats, with having carried off (I know

not where) some persons (I know not whom), in order to prevent their

being here at the proper time--”

“Yes, I accuse you of this infamy!” cried the soldier exasperated by the

calmness and audacity of the reverend father: “yes--and I will--”

“Once again, sir, I conjure you to be so good as to let me finish; you

can reply afterwards,” said Father d’Aigrigny, humbly, in the softest

and most honeyed accents.

“Yes, I will reply, and confound you!” cried Dagobert.

“Let him finish, father. You can speak presently,” said Agricola.

The soldier was silent as Father d’Aigrigny continued with new

assurance: “Doubtless, if there should really be any other heirs,

besides the Abbe Gabriel, it is unfortunate for them that they have not

appeared in proper time. And if, instead of defending the cause of the

poor and needy, I had only to look to my own interest, I should be far

from availing myself of this advantage, due only to chance; but, as a

trustee for the great family of the poor, I am obliged to maintain my

absolute right to this inheritance; and I do not doubt that M. Notary

will acknowledge the validity of my claim, and deliver to me these

securities, which are now my legitimate property.”

“My only mission,” replied the notary, in an agitated voice, “is

faithfully to execute the will of the testator. The Abbe Gabriel

de Rennepont alone presented himself, within the term fixed by the

testament. The deed of gift is in due form; I cannot refuse, therefore,

to deliver to the person named in the deed the amount of the heritage--”

On these words Samuel hid his face in his hands, and heaved a deep

sigh; he was obliged to acknowledge the rigorous justice of the notary’s

observations.

“But, sir,” cried Dagobert, addressing the man of law, “this cannot be.

You will not allow two poor orphans to be despoiled. It is in the name

of their father and mother that I speak to you. I give you my honor--the

honor of a soldier!--that they took advantage of the weakness of my wife

to carry the daughters of Marshal Simon to a convent, and thus prevent

me bringing them here this morning. It is so true, that I have already

laid my charge before a magistrate.”

“And what answer did you receive?” said the notary.

“That my deposition was not sufficient for the law to remove these young

girls from the convent in which they were, and that inquiries would be

made--”

“Yes, sir,” added Agricola, “and it was the same with regard to Mdlle.

de Cardoville, detained as mad in a lunatic asylum, though in the full

enjoyment of her reason. Like Marshal Simon’s daughters, she too has a

claim to this inheritance. I took the same steps for her, as my father

took for Marshal Simon’s daughters.”

“Well?” asked the notary.

“Unfortunately, sir,” answered Agricola, “they told me; as they did my

father, that my deposition would not suffice, and that they must make

inquiries.”

At this moment, Bathsheba, having heard the street-bell ring, left the

Red Room at a sign from Samuel. The notary resumed, addressing Agricola

and his father: “Far be it from me, gentlemen, to call in question your

good faith; but I cannot, to my great regret, attach such importance to

your accusations, which are not supported by proof, as to suspend the

regular legal course. According to your own confession, gentlemen,

the authorities, to whom you addressed yourselves, did not see fit to

interfere on your depositions, and told you they would inquire further.

Now, really, gentlemen, I appeal to you: how can I, in so serious

a matter, take upon myself a responsibility, which the magistrates

themselves have refused to take?”

“Yes, you should do so, in the name of justice and honor?” cried

Dagobert.

“It may be so, sir, in your opinion; but in my view of the case, I

remain faithful to justice and honor, by executing with exactness the

last will of the dead. For the rest you have no occasion to despair. If

the persons, whose interests you represent, consider themselves injured,

they may hereafter have recourse to an action at law, against the person

receiving as donee of the Abbe Gabriel--but in the meanwhile, it is my

duty to put him in immediate possession of the securities. I should be

gravely injured, were I to act in any, other manner.”

The notary’s observations seemed so reasonable, that Samuel, Dagobert

and Agricola were quite confounded. After a moment’s thought, Gabriel

appeared to take a desperate resolution, and said to the notary, in a

firm voice--

“Since, under these circumstances, the law is powerless to obtain the

right, I must adopt, sir, an extreme course. Before doing so, I will ask

M. l’Abbe d’Aigrigny, for the last time, if he will content himself with

that portion of the property which falls justly to me, on condition that

the rest shall be placed in safe hands, till the heirs, whose names have

been brought forward, shall prove their claim.”

“To this proposition I must answer as I have done already,” replied

Father d’Aigrigny; “it is not I who am concerned, but an immense work of

charity. I am, therefore, obliged to refuse the part-offer of the Abbe

Gabriel, and to remind him of his engagements of every kind.”

“Then you refuse this arrangement?” asked Gabriel, in an agitated voice.

“Charity commands me to do so.”

“You refuse it--absolutely?”

“I think of all the good and pious institutions that these treasures

will enable us to establish for the Greater Glory of the Lord, and I

have neither the courage nor the desire to make the least concession.”

“Then, sir,” resumed the good priest, in a still more agitated manner,

“since you force me to do it, I revoke my donation. I only intended to

dispose of my own property, and not of that which did not belong to me.”

“Take care M. l’Abbe,” said rather d’Aigrigny; “I would observe that I

hold in my hand a written, formal promise.”

“I know it, sir; you have a written paper, in which I take an oath

never to revoke this donation, upon any pretext whatever, and on pain of

incurring the aversion and contempt of all honest men. Well, sir! be it

so,” said Gabriel, with deep bitterness; “I will expose myself to all

the consequences of perjury; you may proclaim it everywhere. I may be

hated and despised by all--but God will judge me!” The young priest

dried a tear, which trickled from his eye.

“Oh! do not be afraid, my dear boy!” cried Dagobert, with reviving hope.

“All honest men will be on your side!”

“Well done, brother!” said Agricola.

“M. Notary,” said Rodin, in his little sharp voice, “please to explain

to Abbe Gabriel, that he may perjure himself as much as he thinks

fit, but that the Civil Code is much less easy to violate than a mere

promise, which is only--sacred!”

“Speak, sir,” said Gabriel.

“Please to inform Abbe Gabriel,” resumed Rodin, “that a deed of gift,

like that made in favor of Father d’Aigrigny, can only be cancelled for

one of three reasons--is it not so?”

“Yes, sir, for three reasons,” said the notary.

“The first is in case of the birth of a child,” said Rodin, “and I

should blush to mention such a contingency to the Abbe Gabriel. The

second is the ingratitude of the donee--and the Abbe Gabriel may

be certain of our deep and lasting gratitude. The last case is the

non-fulfilment of the wishes of the donor, with regard to the employment

of his gifts.

“Now, although the Abbe Gabriel may have suddenly conceived a very bad

opinion of us, he will at least give us some time to show that his

gifts have been disposed of according to his wishes, and applied to the

Greater Glory of the Lord.”

“Now, M. Notary,” added Father d’Aigrigny, “it is for you to decide and

say, if Abbe Gabriel can revoke the donation he has made.”

Just as the notary was going to answer, Bathsheba reentered the room,

followed by two more personages, who appeared in the Red Room at a

little distance from each other.

BOOK VI.

PART SECOND.--THE CHASTISEMENT. (Concluded.)

XXVI. A Good Genius XXVII. The First Last, And the Last

First XXVIII. The Stranger XXIX. The Den XXX. An Unexpected

Visit XXXI. Friendly Services XXXII. The Advice XXXIII. The

Accuser XXXIV. Father d’Aigrigny’s Secretary XXXV. Sympathy

XXXVI. Suspicions XXXVII. Excuses XXXVIII. Revelations

XXXIX. Pierre Simon

CHAPTER XXVI. A GOOD GENIUS.

The first of the two, whose arrival had interrupted the answer of the

notary, was Faringhea. At sight of this man’s forbidding countenance,

Samuel approached, and said to him: “Who are you, sir?”

After casting a piercing glance at Rodin, who started but soon recovered

his habitual coolness, Faringhea replied to Samuel: “Prince Djalma

arrived lately from India, in order to be present here this day, as it

was recommended to him by an inscription on a medal, which he wore about

his neck.”

“He, also!” cried Gabriel, who had been the shipmate of the Indian

Prince from the Azores, where the vessel in which he came from

Alexandria had been driven into port: “he also one of the heirs! In

fact, the prince told me during the voyage that his mother was of French

origin. But, doubtless, he thought it right to conceal from me the

object of his journey. Oh! that Indian is a noble and courageous young

man. Where is he?”

The Strangler again looked at Rodin, and said, laying strong emphasis

upon his words: “I left the prince yesterday evening. He informed me

that, although he had a great interest to be here, he might possibly

sacrifice that interest to other motives. I passed the night in the same

hotel, and this morning, when I went to call on him, they told me he was

already gone out. My friendship for him led me to come hither, hoping

the information I should be able to give might be of use to the prince.”

In making no mention of the snare into which he had fallen the day

before, in concealing Rodin’s machinations with regard to Djalma, and

in attributing the absence of this latter to a voluntary cause, the

Strangler evidently wished to serve the socius, trusting that Rodin

would know how to recompense his discretion. It is useless to observe,

that all this story was impudently false. Having succeeded that morning

in escaping from his prison by a prodigious effort of cunning, audacity,

and skill, he had run to the hotel where he had left Djalma; there

he had learned that a man and woman, of an advanced age, and most

respectable appearance, calling themselves relations of the young

Indian, had asked to see him--and that, alarmed at the dangerous state

of somnolency in which he seemed to be plunged, they had taken him home

in their carriage, in order to pay him the necessary attention.

“It is unfortunate,” said the notary, “that this heir also did not

make his appearance--but he has, unhappily, forfeited his right to the

immense inheritance that is in question.”

“Oh! an immense inheritance is in question,” said Faringhea, looking

fixedly at Rodin, who prudently turned away his eyes.

The second of the two personages we have mentioned entered at this

moment. It was the father of Marshal Simon, an old man of tall stature,

still active and vigorous for his age. His hair was white and thin. His

countenance, rather fresh-colored, was expressive at once of quickness,

mildness and energy.

Agricola advanced hastily to meet him. “You here, M. Simon!” he

exclaimed.

“Yes, my boy,” said the marshal’s father, cordially pressing Agricola’s

hand “I have just arrived from my journey. M. Hardy was to have been

here, about some matter of inheritance, as he supposed: but, as he will

still be absent from Paris for some time, he has charged me--”

“He also an heir!--M. Francis Hardy!” cried Agricola, interrupting the

old workman.

“But how pale and agitated you are, my boy!” said the marshal’s father,

looking round with astonishment. “What is the matter?”

“What is the matter?” cried Dagobert, in despair, as he approached the

foreman. “The matter is that they would rob your granddaughters, and

that I have brought them from the depths of Siberia only to witness this

shameful deed!”

“Eh?” cried the old workman, trying to recognize the soldiers face, “you

are then--”

“Dagobert.”

“You--the generous, devoted friend of my son!” cried the marshal’s

father, pressing the hands of Dagobert in his own with strong emotion;

“but did you not speak of Simon’s daughter?”

“Of his daughters; for he is more fortunate than he imagines,” said

Dagobert. “The poor children are twins.”

“And where are they?” asked the old man.

“In a convent.”

“In a convent?”

“Yes; by the treachery of this man, who keeps them there in order to

disinherit them.”

“What man?”

“The Marquis d’Aigrigny.”

“My son’s mortal enemy!” cried the old workman, as he threw a glance of

aversion at Father d’Aigrigny, whose audacity did not fail him.

“And that is not all,” added Agricola. “M. Hardy, my worthy and

excellent master, has also lost his right to this immense inheritance.”

“What?” cried Marshal Simon’s father; “but M. Hardy did not know that

such important interests were concerned. He set out hastily to join one

of his friends who was in want of him.”

At each of these successive revelations, Samuel felt his trouble

increase: but he could only sigh over it, for the will of the testator

was couched, unhappily, in precise and positive terms.

Father d’Aigrigny, impatient to end this scene, which caused him cruel

embarrassment, in spite of his apparent calmness, said to the notary,

in a grave and expressive voice: “It is necessary, sir, that all

this should have an end. If calumny could reach me, I would answer

victoriously by the facts that have just come to light. Why attribute

to odious conspiracies the absence of the heirs, in whose names this

soldier and his son have so uncourteously urged their demands? Why

should such absence be less explicable than the young Indian’s, or than

M. Hardy’s, who, as his confidential man has just told us, did not even

know the importance of the interests that called him hither? Is it not

probable, that the daughters of Marshal Simon, and Mdlle. de Cardoville

have been prevented from coming here to-day by some very natural

reasons? But, once again, this has lasted too long. I think M. Notary

will agree with me, that this discovery of new heirs does not at all

affect the question, which I had the honor to propose to him just now;

namely whether, as trustee for the poor, to whom Abbe Gabriel made a

free gift of all he possessed, I remain notwithstanding his tardy and

illegal opposition, the only possessor of this property, which I

have promised, and which I now again promise, in presence of all here

assembled, to employ for the Greater Glory of the Lord? Please to answer

me plainly, M. Notary; and thus terminate the scene which must needs be

painful to us all.”

“Sir,” replied the notary, in a solemn tone, “on my soul and conscience,

and in the name of law and justice--as a faithful and impartial executor

of the last will of M. Marius de Rennepont, I declare that, by virtue

of the deed of gift of Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont, you, M. l’Abbe

d’Aigrigny, are the only possessor of this property, which I place at

your immediate disposal, that you may employ the same according to the

intention of the donor.”

These words pronounced with conviction and gravity, destroyed the last

vague hopes that the representatives of the heirs might till then have

entertained. Samuel became paler than usual, and pressed convulsively

the hand of Bathsheba, who had drawn near to him. Large tears rolled

down the cheeks of the two old people. Dagobert and Agricola were

plunged into the deepest dejection. Struck with the reasoning of

the notary, who refused to give more credence and authority to their

remonstrances than the magistrates had done before him, they saw

themselves forced to abandon every hope. But Gabriel suffered more than

any one; he felt the most terrible remorse, in reflecting that, by his

blindness, he had been the involuntary cause and instrument of this

abominable theft.

So, when the notary, after having examined and verified the amount of

securities contained in the cedar box, said to Father d’Aigrigny:

“Take possession, sir, of this casket--” Gabriel exclaimed, with bitter

disappointment and profound despair: “Alas! one would fancy, under these

circumstances, that an inexorable fatality pursues all those who are

worthy of interest, affection or respect. Oh, my God!” added the young

priest, clasping his hands with fervor, “Thy sovereign justice will

never permit the triumph of such iniquity.”

It was as if heaven had listened to the prayer of the missionary. Hardly

had he spoken, when a strange event took place.

Without waiting for the end of Gabriel’s invocation, Rodin, profiting by

the decision of the notary, had seized the casket in his arms, unable

to repress a deep aspiration of joy and triumph. At the very moment

when Father d’Aigrigny and his socius thought themselves at last in safe

possession of the treasure, the door of the apartment in which the clock

had been heard striking was suddenly opened.

A woman appeared upon the threshold.

At sight of her, Gabriel uttered a loud cry, and remained as if

thunderstruck. Samuel and Bathsheba fell on their knees together, and

raised their clasped hands. The Jew and Jewess felt inexplicable hopes

reviving within them.

All the other actors in this scene appeared struck with stupor.

Rodin--Rodin himself--recoiled two steps, and replaced the casket on the

table with a trembling hand. Though the incident might appear natural

enough--a woman appearing on the threshold of a door, which she had just

thrown open--there was a pause of deep and solemn silence. Every bosom

seemed oppressed, and as if struggling for breath. All experienced,

at sight of this woman, surprise mingled with fear, and indefinable

anxiety--for this woman was the living original of the portrait, which

had been placed in the room a hundred and fifty years ago. The same

head-dress, the same flowing robe, the same countenance, so full of

poignant and resigned grief! She advanced slowly, and without appearing

to perceive the deep impression she had caused. She approached one of

the pieces of furniture, inlaid with brass, touched a spring concealed

in the moulding of gilded bronze, so that an upper drawer flew open, and

taking from it a sealed parchment envelope, she walked up to the table,

and placed this packet before the notary, who, hitherto silent and

motionless, received it mechanically from her.

Then, casting upon Gabriel, who seemed fascinated by her presence, a

long, mild, melancholy look, this woman directed her steps towards the

hall, the door of which had remained open. As she passed near Samuel and

Bathsheba, who were still kneeling, she stopped an instant, bowed her

fair head towards them, and looked at them with tender solicitude. Then,

giving them her hands to kiss, she glided away as slowly as she had

entered--throwing a last glance upon Gabriel. The departure of this

woman seemed to break the spell under which all present had remained for

the last few minutes. Gabriel was the first to speak, exclaiming, in an

agitated voice. “It is she--again--here--in this house!”

“Who, brother?” said Agricola, uneasy at the pale and almost wild

looks of the missionary; for the smith had not yet remarked the strange

resemblance of the woman to the portrait, though he shared in the

general feeling of amazement, without being able to explain it to

himself. Dagobert and Faringhea were in a similar state of mind.

“Who is this woman?” resumed Agricola, as he took the hand of Gabriel,

which felt damp and icy cold.

“Look!” said the young priest. “Those portraits have been there for more

than a century and a half.”

He pointed to the paintings before which he was now seated, and

Agricola, Dagobert, and Faringhea raised their eyes to either side of

the fireplace. Three exclamations were now heard at once.

“It is she--it is the same woman!” cried the smith, in amazement, “and

her portrait has been here for a hundred and fifty years!”

“What do I see?” cried Dagobert, as he gazed at the portrait of the man.

“The friend and emissary of Marshal Simon. Yes! it is the same face that

I saw last year in Siberia. Oh, yes! I recognize that wild and sorrowful

air--those black eyebrows, which make only one!”

“My eyes do not deceive me,” muttered Faringhea to himself, shuddering

with horror. “It is the same man, with the black mark on his forehead,

that we strangled and buried on the banks of the Ganges--the same man,

that one of the sons of Bowanee told me, in the ruins of Tchandi, had

been met by him afterwards at one of the gates of Bombay--the man of the

fatal curse, who scatters death upon his passage--and his picture has

existed for a hundred and fifty years!”

And, like Dagobert and Agricola, the stranger could not withdraw his

eyes from that strange portrait.

“What a mysterious resemblance!” thought Father d’Aigrigny. Then, as if

struck with a sudden idea, he said to Gabriel: “But this woman is the

same that saved your life in America?”

“It is the same,” answered Gabriel, with emotion; “and yet she told me

she was going towards the North,” added the young priest, speaking to

himself.

“But how came she in this house?” said Father d’Aigrigny, addressing

Samuel. “Answer me! did this woman come in with you, or before you?”

“I came in first, and alone, when this door was first opened since a

century and half,” said Samuel, gravely.

“Then how can you explain the presence of this woman here?” said Father

d’Aigrigny.

“I do not try to explain it,” said the Jew. “I see, I believe, and now I

hope.” added he, looking at Bathsheba with an indefinable expression.

“But you ought to explain the presence of this woman!” said Father

d’Aigrigny, with vague uneasiness. “Who is she? How came she hither?”

“All I know is, sir, that my father has often told me; there are

subterraneous communications between this house and distant parts of the

quarter.”

“Oh! then nothing can be clearer,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “it only

remains to be known what this woman intends by coming hither. As for

her singular resemblance to this portrait, it is one of the freaks of

nature.”

Rodin had shared in the general emotion, at the apparition of this

mysterious woman. But when he saw that she had delivered a sealed packet

to the notary, the socius, instead of thinking of the strangeness of

this unexpected vision, was only occupied with a violent desire to quit

the house with the treasure which had just fallen to the Company. He

felt a vague anxiety at sight of the envelope with the black seal, which

the protectress of Gabriel had delivered to the notary, and was still

held mechanically in his hands. The socius, therefore, judging this a

very good opportunity to walk off with the casket, during the general

silence and stupor which still continued, slightly touched Father

d’Aigrigny’s elbow, made him a sign of intelligence, and, tucking the

cedar-wood chest under his arm, was hastening towards the door.

“One moment, sir,” said Samuel, rising, and standing in his path; “I

request M. Notary to examine the envelope, that has just been delivered

to him. You may then go out.”

“But, sir,” said Rodin, trying to force a passage, “the question is

definitively decided in favor of Father d’Aigrigny. Therefore, with your

permission--”

“I tell you, sir,” answered the old man, in a loud voice, “that this

casket shall not leave the house, until M. Notary has examined the

envelope just delivered to him!”

These words drew the attention of all, Rodin was forced to retrace his

steps. Notwithstanding the firmness of his character, the Jew shuddered

at the look of implacable hate which Rodin turned upon him at this

moment.

Yielding to the wish of Samuel, the notary examined the envelope with

attention. “Good Heaven!” he cried suddenly; “what do I see?--Ah! so

much the better!”

At this exclamation all eyes turned upon the notary. “Oh! read, read,

sir!” cried Samuel, clasping his hands together. “My presentiments have

not then deceived me!”

“But, sir,” said Father d’Aigrigny to the notary, for he began to share

in the anxiety of Rodin, “what is this paper?”

“A codicil,” answered the notary; “a codicil, which reopens the whole

question.”

“How, sir?” cried Father d’Aigrigny, in a fury, as he hastily drew

nearer to the notary, “reopens the whole question! By what right?”

“It is impossible,” added Rodin. “We protest against it.

“Gabriel! father! listen,” cried Agricola, “all is not lost. There is

yet hope. Do you hear, Gabriel? There is yet hope.”

“What do you say?” exclaimed the young priest, rising, and hardly

believing the words of his adopted brother.

“Gentlemen,” said the notary; “I will read to you the superscription

of this envelope. It changes, or rather, it adjourns, the whole of the

testamentary provisions.”

“Gabriel!” cried Agricola, throwing himself on the neck of the

missionary, “all is adjourned, nothing is lost!”

“Listen, gentlemen,” said the notary; and he read as follows:

“‘This is a Codicil, which for reasons herein stated, adjourns and

prorogues to the 1st day of June, 1832, though without any other change,

all the provisions contained in the testament made by me, at one o’clock

this afternoon. The house shall be reclosed, and the funds left in the

hands of the same trustee, to be distributed to the rightful claimants

on the 1st of June, 1832.

“‘Villetaneuse, this 13th of February, 1682, eleven o’clock at night.

“‘MARIUS DE RENNEPONT.’”

“I protest against this codicil as a forgery!” cried Father d’Aigrigny

livid with rage and despair.

“The woman who delivered it to the notary is a suspicious character,”

added Rodin. “The codicil has been forged.”

“No, sir,” said the notary, severely; “I have just compared the two

signatures, and they are absolutely alike. For the rest--what I said

this morning, with regard to the absent heirs, is now applicable to

you--the law is open; you may dispute the authenticity of this codicil.

Meanwhile, everything will remain suspended--since the term for the

adjustment of the inheritance is prolonged for three months and a half.”

When the notary had uttered these last words, Rodin’s nails dripped

blood; for the first time, his wan lips became red.

“Oh, God! Thou hast heard and granted my prayer!” cried Gabriel,

kneeling down with religious fervor, and turning his angelic face

towards heaven. “Thy sovereign justice has not let iniquity triumph!”

“What do you say, my brave boy?” cried Dagobert, who, in the first

tumult of joy, had not exactly understood the meaning of the codicil.

“All is put off, father!” exclaimed the smith; “the heirs will have

three months and a half more to make their claim. And now that these

people are unmasked,” added Agricola, pointing to Rodin and Father

d’Aigrigny, “we have nothing more to fear from them. We shall be on

our guard; and the orphans, Mdlle. de Cardoville, my worthy master, M.

Hardy, and this young Indian, will all recover their own.”

We must renounce the attempt to paint the delight, the transport of

Gabriel and Agricola, of Dagobert, and Marshal Simon’s father, of Samuel

and Bathsheba. Faringhea alone remained in gloomy silence, before the

portrait of the man with the black-barred forehead. As for the fury of

Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin, when they saw Samuel retake possession of

the casket, we must also renounce any attempt to describe it. On the

notary’s suggestion, who took with him the codicil, to have it opened

according to the formalities of the law, Samuel agreed that it would be

more prudent to deposit in the Bank of France the securities of immense

value that were now known to be in his possession.

While all the generous hearts, which had for a moment suffered so much,

were overflowing with happiness, hope, and joy, Father d’Aigrigny and

Rodin quitted the house with rage and death in their souls. The reverend

father got into his carriage, and said to his servants: “To Saint-Dizier

House!”--Then, worn out and crushed, he fell back upon the seat, and hid

his face in his hands, while he uttered a deep groan. Rodin sat next to

him, and looked with a mixture of anger and disdain at this so dejected

and broken-spirited man.

“The coward!” said he to himself. “He despairs--and yet--”

A quarter of an hour later, the carriage stopped in the Rue de Babylone,

in the court-yard of Saint-Dizier House.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE FIRST LAST, AND THE LAST FIRST.

The carriage had travelled rapidly to Saint-Dizier House. During all

the way, Rodin remained mute, contenting himself with observing Father

d’Aigrigny, and listening to him, as he poured forth his grief and fury

in a long monologue, interrupted by exclamations, lamentations, and

bursts of rage, directed against the strokes of that inexorable destiny,

which had ruined in a moment the best founded hopes. When the carriage

entered the courtyard, and stopped before the portico, the princess’s

face could be seen through one of the windows, half hidden by the folds

of a curtain; in her burning anxiety, she came to see if it was really

Father d’Aigrigny who arrived at the house. Still more, in defiance

of all ordinary rules, this great lady, generally so scrupulous as to

appearances, hurried from her apartment, and descended several steps

of the staircase, to meet Father d’Aigrigny, who was coming up with

a dejected air. At sight of the livid and agitated countenance of the

reverend father, the princess stopped suddenly, and grew pale. She

suspected that all was lost. A look rapidly exchanged with her old lover

left her no doubt of the issue she so much feared. Rodin humbly followed

the reverend father, and both, preceded by the princess, entered the

room. The door once closed, the princess, addressing Father d’Aigrigny,

exclaimed with unspeakable anguish: “What has happened?”

Instead of answering this question, the reverend father, his eyes

sparkling with rage, his lips white, his features contracted, looked

fixedly at the princess, and said to her: “Do you know the amount of

this inheritance, that we estimated at forty millions?”

“I understand,” cried the princess; “we have been deceived. The

inheritance amounts to nothing, and all you have dare has been in vain.”

“Yes, it has indeed been in vain,” answered the reverend father,

grinding his teeth with rage; “it was no question of forty millions, but

of two hundred and twelve millions.

“Two hundred and twelve millions!” repeated the princess in amazement,

as she drew back a step. “It is impossible!”

“I tell you I saw the vouchers, which were examined by the notary.”

“Two hundred and twelve millions?” resumed the princess, with deep

dejection. “It is an immense and sovereign power--and you have

renounced--you have not struggled for it, by every possible means, and

till the last moment?”

“Madame, I have done all that I could!--notwithstanding the treachery

of Gabriel, who this very morning declared that he renounced us, and

separated from the Society.”

“Ungrateful!” said the princess, unaffectedly.

“The deed of gift, which I had the precaution to have prepared by the

notary, was in such good, legal form, that in spite of the objections of

that accursed soldier and his son, the notary had put me in possession

of the treasure.”

“Two hundred and twelve millions!” repeated the princess clasping her

hands. “Verily it is like a dream!”

“Yes,” replied Father d’Aigrigny, bitterly, “for us, this possession is

indeed a dream, for a codicil has been discovered, which puts off for

three months and a half all the testamentary provisions. Now that our

very precautions have roused the suspicion of all these heirs--now that

they know the enormous amount at stake--they will be upon their guard;

and all is lost.”

“But who is the wretch that produced this codicil?”

“A woman.”

“What woman?”

“Some wandering creature, that Gabriel says he met in America, where she

saved his life.”

“And how could this woman be there--how could she know the existence of

this codicil?”

“I think it was all arranged with a miserable Jew, the guardian of the

house, whose family has had charge of the funds for three generations;

he had no doubt some secret instructions, in case he suspected the

detention of any of the heirs, for this Marius de Rennepont had foreseen

that our Company would keep their eyes upon his race.”

“But can you not dispute the validity of this codicil?”

“What, go to law in these times--litigate about a will--incur the

certainty of a thousand clamors, with no security for success?--It is

bad enough, that even this should get wind. Alas! it is terrible. So

near the goal! after so much care and trouble. An affair that had been

followed up with so much perseverance during a century and a half!”

“Two hundred and twelve millions!” said the princess. “The Order would

have had no need to look for establishments in foreign countries; with

such resources, it would have been able to impose itself upon France.”

“Yes,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, with bitterness; “by means of

education, we might have possessed ourselves of the rising generation.

The power is altogether incalculable.” Then, stamping with his foot, he

resumed: “I tell you, that it is enough to drive one mad with rage! an

affair so wisely, ably, patiently conducted!”

“Is there no hope?”

“Only that Gabriel may not revoke his donation, in as far as concerns

himself. That alone would be a considerable sum--not less than thirty

millions.”

“It is enormous--it is almost what you hoped,” said the princess; “then

why despair?”

“Because it is evident that Gabriel will dispute this donation. However

legal it may be, he will find means to annul it, now that he is free,

informed as to our designs, and surrounded by his adopted family. I tell

you, that all is lost. There is no hope left. I think it will be even

prudent to write to Rome, to obtain permission to leave Paris for a

while. This town is odious to me!”

“Oh, yes! I see that no hope is left--since you, my friend, have decided

almost to fly.”

Father d’Aigrigny was completely discouraged and broken down; this

terrible blow had destroyed all life and energy within him. He threw

himself back in an arm-chair, quite overcome. During the preceding

dialogue, Rodin was standing humbly near the door, with his old hat in

his hand. Two or three times, at certain passages in the conversation

between Father d’Aigrigny and the princess, the cadaverous face of the

socius, whose wrath appeared to be concentrated, was slightly flushed,

and his flappy eyelids were tinged with red, as if the blood mounted in

consequence of an interior struggle; but, immediately after, his dull

countenance resumed its pallid blue.

“I must write instantly to Rome, to announce this defeat, which has

become an event of the first importance, because it overthrows immense

hopes,” said Father d’Aigrigny, much depressed.

The reverend father had remained seated; pointing to a table, he said to

Rodin, with an abrupt and haughty air:

“Write!”

The socius placed his hat on the ground, answered with a respectful

bow the command, and with stooping head and slanting walk, went to

seat himself on a chair, that stood before a desk. Then, taking pen

and paper, he waited, silent and motionless, for the dictation of his

superior.

“With your permission, princess?” said Father d’Aigrigny to Madame de

Saint-Dizier. The latter answered by an impatient wave of the hand, as

if she reproached him for the formal demand at such a time. The reverend

father bowed, and dictated these words in a hoarse and hollow voice:

“All our hopes, which of late had become almost certainties, have been

suddenly defeated. The affair of the Rennepont inheritance, in spite

of all the care and skill employed upon it, has completely and

finally failed. At the point to which matters had been brought, it is

unfortunately worse than a failure; it is a most disastrous event for

the Society, which was clearly entitled to this property, fraudulently

withdrawn from a confiscation made in our favor. My conscience at least

bears witness, that, to the last moment, I did all that was possible

to defend and secure our rights. But I repeat, we must consider this

important affair as lost absolutely and forever, and think no more about

it.”

Thus dictating, Father d’Aigrigny’s back was turned towards Rodin. At a

sudden movement made by the socius, in rising and throwing his pen upon

the table, instead of continuing to write, the reverend father turned

round, and, looking at Rodin with profound astonishment, said to him:

“Well! what are you doing?”

“It is time to end this--the man is mad!” said Rodin to himself, as he

advanced slowly towards the fireplace.

“What! you quit your place--you cease writing?” said the reverend

father, in amazement. Then, addressing the princess, who shared in his

astonishment, he added, as he glanced contemptuously at the socius, “He

is losing his senses.”

“Forgive him,” replied Mme. de Saint-Dizier; “it is, no doubt, the

emotion caused by the ruin of this affair.”

“Thank the princess, return to your place, and continue to write,” said

Father d’Aigrigny to Rodin, in a tone of disdainful compassion, as, with

imperious finger, he pointed to the table.

The socius, perfectly indifferent to this new order, approached the

fireplace, drew himself up to his full height as he turned his arched

back, planted himself firmly on his legs, stamped on the carpet with the

heel of his clumsy, greasy shoes, crossed his hands beneath the flaps of

his old, spotted coat, and, lifting his head, looked fixedly at

Father d’Aigrigny. The socius had not spoken a word, but his hideous

countenance, now flushed, suddenly revealed such a sense of his

superiority, and such sovereign contempt for Father d’Aigrigny, mingled

with so calm and serene a daring, that the reverend father and the

princess were quite confounded by it. They felt themselves overawed by

this little old man, so sordid and so ugly. Father d’Aigrigny knew too

well the customs of the Company, to believe his humble secretary capable

of assuming so suddenly these airs of transcendent superiority without

a motive, or rather, without a positive right. Late, too late, the

reverend father perceived, that this subordinate agent might be partly

a spy, partly an experienced assistant, who, according to the

constitutions of the Order, had the power and mission to depose and

provisionally replace, in certain urgent cases, the incapable person

over whom he was stationed as a guard. The reverend father was not

deceived. From the general to the provincials, and to the rectors of

the colleges, all the superior members of the Order have stationed

near them, often without their knowledge, and in apparently the lowest

capacities, men able to assume their functions at any given moment, and

who, with this view, constantly keep up a direct correspondence with

Rome.

From the moment Rodin had assumed this position, the manners of Father

d’Aigrigny, generally so haughty, underwent a change. Though it cost him

a good deal, he said with hesitation, mingled with deference: “You have,

no doubt, the right to command me--who hitherto have commanded.” Rodin,

without answering, drew from his well-rubbed and greasy pocket-book a

slip of paper, stamped upon both sides, on which were written several

lines in Latin. When he had read it, Father d’Aigrigny pressed this

paper respectfully, even religiously, to his lips: then returned it to

Rodin, with a low bow. When he again raised his head, he was purple with

shame and vexation. Notwithstanding his habits of passive obedience

and immutable respect for the will of the Order, he felt a bitter and

violent rage at seeing himself thus abruptly deposed from power. That

was not all. Though, for a long time past, all relations in gallantry

had ceased between him and Mme. de Saint-Dizier, the latter was not the

less a woman; and for him to suffer this humiliation in presence of a

woman was, undoubtedly, cruel, as, notwithstanding his entrance into the

Order, he had not wholly laid aside the character of man of the world.

Moreover, the princess, instead of appearing hurt and offended by this

sudden transformation of the superior into a subaltern, and of the

subaltern into a superior, looked at Rodin with a sort of curiosity

mingled with interest. As a woman--as a woman, intensely ambitious,

seeking to connect herself with every powerful influence--the princess

loved this strange species of contrast. She found it curious and

interesting to see this man, almost in rags, mean in appearance, and

ignobly ugly, and but lately the most humble of subordinates look down

from the height of his superior intelligence upon the nobleman by

birth, distinguished for the elegance of his manners, and just before so

considerable a personage in the Society. From that moment, as the more

important personage of the two, Rodin completely took the place of

Father d’Aigrigny in the princess’s mind. The first pang of humiliation

over, the reverend father, though his pride bled inwardly, applied all

his knowledge of the world to behave with redoubled courtesy towards

Rodin, who had become his superior by this abrupt change of fortune. But

the ex-socius, incapable of appreciating, or rather of acknowledging,

such delicate shades of manner, established himself at once, firmly,

imperiously, brutally, in his new position, not from any reaction of

offended pride, but from a consciousness of what he was really worth.

A long acquaintance with Father d’Aigrigny had revealed to him the

inferiority of the latter.

“You threw away your pen,” said Father d’Aigrigny to Rodin with extreme

deference, “while I was dictating a note for Rome. Will you do me the

favor to tell me how I have acted wrong?”

“Directly,” replied Rodin, in his sharp, cutting voice. “For a long time

this affair appeared to me above your strength; but I abstained from

interfering. And yet what mistakes! what poverty of invention; what

coarseness in the means employed to bring it to bear!”

“I can hardly understand your reproaches,” answered Father d’Aigrigny,

mildly, though a secret bitterness made its way through his apparent

submission. “Was not the success certain, had it not been for this

codicil? Did you not yourself assist in the measures that you now

blame?”

“You commanded, then, and it was my duty to obey. Besides, you were just

on the point of succeeding--not because of the means you had taken--but

in spite of those means, with all their awkward and revolting

brutality.”

“Sir--you are severe,” said Father d’Aigrigny.

“I am just. One has to be prodigiously clever, truly, to shut up any one

in a room, and then lock the door! And yet, what else have you done? The

daughters of General Simon?--imprisoned at Leipsic, shut up in a

convent at Paris! Adrienne de Cardoville?--placed in confinement.

Sleepinbuff--put in prison. Djalma?--quieted by a narcotic. One only

ingenious method, and a thousand times safer, because it acted morally,

not materially, was employed to remove M. Hardy. As for your other

proceedings--they were all bad, uncertain, dangerous. Why? Because they

were violent, and violence provokes violence. Then it is no longer a

struggle of keen, skillful, persevering men, seeing through the darkness

in which they walk, but a match of fisticuffs in broad day. Though we

should be always in action, we should always shrink from view; and yet

you could find no better plan than to draw universal attention to us

by proceedings at once open and deplorably notorious. To make them more

secret, you call in the guard, the commissary of police, the jailers,

for your accomplices. It is pitiable, sir; nothing but the most

brilliant success could cover such wretched folly; and this success has

been wanting.”

“Sir,” said Father d’Aigrigny, deeply hurt, for the Princess de Saint

Dizier, unable to conceal the sort of admiration caused in her by the

plain, decisive words of Rodin, looked at her old lover, with an air

that seemed to say, “He is right;”--“sir, you are more than severe in

your judgment; and, notwithstanding the deference I owe to you, I must

observe, that I am not accustomed--”

“There are many other things to which you are not accustomed,” said

Rodin, harshly interrupting the reverend father; “but you will accustom

yourself to them. You have hitherto had a false idea of your own value.

There is the old leaven of the soldier and the worlding fermenting

within you, which deprives your reason of the coolness, lucidity, and

penetration that it ought to possess. You have been a fine military

officer, brisk and gay, foremost in wars and festivals, with pleasures

and women. These things have half worn you out. You will never be

anything but a subaltern; you have been thoroughly tested. You will

always want that vigor and concentration of mind which governs men and

events. That vigor and concentration of mind I have--and do you know

why? It is because, solely devoted to the service of the Company, I have

always been ugly, dirty, unloved, unloving--I have all my manhood about

me!”

In pronouncing these words, full of cynical pride, Rodin was truly

fearful. The princess de Saint-Dizier thought him almost handsome by his

energy and audacity.

Father d’Aigrigny, feeling himself overawed, invincibly and inexorably,

by this diabolical being, made a last effort to resist and exclaimed,

“Oh! sir, these boastings are no proofs of valor and power. We must see

you at work.”

“Yes,” replied Rodin, coldly; “do you know at what work?” Rodin was fond

of this interrogative mode of expression. “Why, at the work that you so

basely abandon.”

“What!” cried the Princess de Saint-Dizier; for Father d’Aigrigny,

stupefied at Rodin’s audacity, was unable to utter a word.

“I say,” resumed Rodin, slowly, “that I undertake to bring to a good

issue this affair of the Rennepont inheritance, which appears to you so

desperate.”

“You?” cried Father d’Aigrigny. “You?” “I.”

“But they have unmasked our maneuvers.”

“So much the better; we shall be obliged to invent others.”

“But they; will suspect us in everything.”

“So much the better; the success that is difficult is the most certain.”

“What! do you hope to make Gabriel consent not to revoke his donation,

which is perhaps illegal?”

“I mean to bring in to the coffers of the Company the whole of the two

hundred and twelve millions, of which they wish to cheat us. Is that

clear?”

“It is clear--but impossible.”

“And I tell you that it is, and must be possible. Do you not understand,

short-sighted as you are!” cried Rodin, animated to such a degree that

his cadaverous face became slightly flushed; “do you not understand that

it is no longer in our choice to hesitate? Either these two hundred

and twelve millions must be ours--and then the re-establishment of our

sovereign influence in France is sure--for, in these venal times, with

such a sum at command, you may bribe or overthrow a government, or light

up the flame of civil war, and restore legitimacy, which is our natural

ally, and, owing all to us, would give us all in return--”

“That is clear,” cried the princess, clasping her hands in admiration.

“If, on the contrary,” resumed Rodin, “these two hundred and twelve

millions fall into the hands of the family of the Renneponts, it will

be our ruin and our destruction. We shall create a stock of bitter and

implacable enemies. Have you not heard the execrable designs of that

Rennepont, with regard to the association he recommends, and which, by

an accursed fatality, his race are just in a condition to realize? Think

of the forces that would rally round these millions. There would be

Marshal Simon, acting in the name of his daughters--that is, the man of

the people become a duke, without being the vainer for it, which secures

his influence with the mob, because military spirit and Bonapartism

still represent, in the eyes of the French populace, the traditions of

national honor and glory. There would be Francis Hardy, the liberal,

independent, enlightened citizen, the type of the great manufacturer,

the friend of progress, the benefactor of his workmen. There would be

Gabriel--the good priest, as they say!--the apostle of the primitive

gospel, the representative of the democracy of the church, of the poor

country curate as opposed to the rich bishop, the tiller of the vine as

opposed to him who sits in the shade of it; the propagator of all

the ideas of fraternity, emancipation, progress--to use their own

jargon--and that, not in the name of revolutionary and incendiary

politics, but in the name of a religion of charity, love, and peace--to

speak as they speak. There, too, would be Adrienne de Cardoville, the

type of elegance, grace, and beauty, the priestess of the senses, which

she deifies by refining and cultivating them. I need not tell you of

her wit and audacity; you know them but too well. No one could be more

dangerous to us than this creature, a patrician in blood, a plebeian in

heart, a poet in imagination. Then, too, there would be Prince Djalma,

chivalrous, bold, ready for adventure, knowing nothing of civilized

life, implacable in his hate as in his affection, a terrible instrument

for whoever can make use of him. In this detestable family, even such

a wretch as Sleepinbuff, who in himself is of no value, raised and

purified by the contact of these generous and far from narrow natures

(as they call them), might represent the working class, and take a large

share in the influence of that association. Now do you not think that if

all these people, already exasperated against us, because (as they say)

we have wished to rob them, should follow the detestable counsels of

this Rennepont--should unite their forces around this immense fortune,

which would strengthen them a hundred-fold--do you not think that, if

they declare a deadly war against us, they will be the most dangerous

enemies that we have ever had? I tell you that the Company has never

been in such serious peril; yes, it is now a question of life and

death. We must no longer defend ourselves, but lead the attack, so as

to annihilate this accursed race of Rennepont, and obtain possession of

these millions.”

At this picture, drawn by Rodin with a feverish animation, which had

only the more influence from its unexpectedness, the princess and Father

d’Aigrigny looked at each other in confusion.

“I confess,” said the reverend father to Rodin, “I had not considered

all the dangerous consequences of this association, recommended by M. de

Rennepont. I believe that the heir, from the characters we know them to

be possessed of, would wish to realize this Utopia. The peril is great

and pressing; what is to be done?”

“What, sir? You have to act upon ignorant, heroic, enthusiastic natures

like Djalma’s--sensual and eccentric characters like Adrienne de

Cardoville’s--simple and ingenuous minds like Rose and Blanche

Simon’s--honest and frank dispositions like Francis Hardy’s--angelic and

pure souls like Gabriel’s--brutal and stupid instincts like Jacques--and

can you ask, ‘What is to be done?’”

“In truth, I do not understand you,” said Father d’Aigrigny.

“I believe it. Your past conduct shows as much,” replied Rodin,

contemptuously. “You have had recourse to the lowest and most mechanical

contrivances, instead of acting upon the noble and generous passions,

which, once united, would constitute so formidable a bond; but which,

now divided and isolated, are open to every surprise, every seduction,

every attack! Do you, at length understand me? Not yet?” added Rodin,

shrugging his shoulders. “Answer me--do people die of despair?”

“Yes.”

“May not the gratitude of successful love reach the last limits of

insane generosity?”

“Yes.”

“May there not be such horrible deceptions, that suicide is the only

refuge from frightful realities?”

“Yes.”

“May not the excess of sensuality lead to the grave by a slow and

voluptuous agony?”

“Yes.”

“Are there not in life such terrible circumstances that the most

worldly, the firmest, the most impious characters, throw themselves

blindly, overwhelmed with despair, into the arms of religion, and

abandon all earthly greatness for sackcloth, and prayers, and solitude?”

“Yes.”

“Are there not a thousand occasions in which the reaction of the

passions works the most extraordinary changes, and brings about the most

tragic catastrophes in the life of man and woman?”

“No doubt.”

“Well, then! why ask me, ‘What is to be done?’ What would you say, for

example, if before three months are over, the most dangerous members of

this family of the Renneponts should come to implore, upon their knees,

admission to that very Society which they now hold in horror, and from

which Gabriel has just separated?”

“Such a conversion is impossible,” cried Father d’Aigrigny.

“Impossible? What were you, sir, fifteen years ago?” said Rodin. “An

impious and debauched man of the world. And yet you came to us, and your

wealth became ours. What! we have conquered princes, kings, popes; we

have absorbed and extinguished in our unity magnificent intelligences,

which, from afar, shone with too dazzling a light; we have all but

governed two worlds; we have perpetuated our Society, full of life,

rich and formidable, even to this day, through all the hate, and all the

persecutions that have assailed us; and yet we shall not be able to

get the better of a single family, which threatens our Company, and has

despoiled us of a large fortune? What! we are not skillful enough to

obtain this result without having recourse to awkward and dangerous

violence? You do not know, then, the immense field that is thrown

open by the mutually destructive power of human passions, skillfully

combined, opposed, restrained, excited?--particularly,” added Rodin,

with a strange smile, “when, thanks to a powerful ally, these passions

are sure to be redoubled in ardor and energy.”

“What ally?” asked Father d’Aigrigny, who, as well as the Princess de

Saint-Dizier, felt a sort of admiration mixed with terror.

“Yes,” resumed Rodin, without answering the reverend father; “this

formidable ally, who comes to our assistance, may bring about the most

astonishing transformations--make the coward brave, and the impious

credulous, and the gentle ferocious--”

“But this ally!” cried the Princess, oppressed with a vague sense of

fear. “This great and formidable ally--who is he?”

“If he comes,” resumed Rodin, still impassible, “the youngest and most

vigorous, every moment in danger of death, will have no advantage over

the sick man at his last gasp.”

“But who is this ally?” exclaimed Father d’Aigrigny, more and more

alarmed, for as the picture became darker, Rodin’s face become more

cadaverous.

“This ally, who can decimate a population, may carry away with him in

the shroud that he drags at his heels, the whole of an accursed race;

but even he must respect the life of that great intangible body, which

does not perish with the death of its members--for the spirit of the

Society of Jesus is immortal!”

“And this ally?”

“Oh, this ally,” resumed Rodin, “who advances with slow steps, and whose

terrible coming is announced by mournful presentiments--”

“Is--”

“The Cholera!”

These words, pronounced by Rodin in an abrupt voice, made the Princess

and Father d’Aigrigny grow pale and tremble. Rodin’s look was gloomy and

chilling, like a spectre’s. For some moments, the silence of the

tomb reigned in the saloon. Rodin was the first to break it. Still

impassible, he pointed with imperious gesture to the table, where a few

minutes before he had himself been humbly seated, and said in a sharp

voice to Father d’Aigrigny, “Write!”

The reverend father started at first with surprise; then, remembering

that from a superior he had become an inferior, he rose, bowed lowly to

Rodin, as he passed before him, seated himself at the table, took the

pen, and said, “I am ready.”

Rodin dictated, and the reverend Father wrote as follows: “By the

mismanagement of the Reverend Father d’Aigrigny, the affair of the

inheritance of the Rennepont family has been seriously compromised.

The sum amounts to two hundred and twelve millions. Notwithstanding

the check we have received, we believe we may safely promise to prevent

these Renneponts from injuring the Society, and to restore the two

hundred and twelve millions to their legitimate possessors. We only ask

for the most complete and extensive powers.”

A quarter of an hour after this scene, Rodin left Saint Dizier House,

brushing with his sleeve the old greasy hat, I which he had pulled off

to return the salute of the porter by a very low bow.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE STRANGER.

The following scene took place on the morrow of the day in which

Father d’Aigrigny had been so rudely degraded by Rodin to the subaltern

position formerly occupied by the socius.

It is well known that the Rue Clovis is one of the most solitary streets

in the Montagne St. Genevieve district. At the epoch of this narrative,

the house No. 4, in this street, was composed of one principal building,

through which ran a dark passage, leading to a little, gloomy court, at

the end of which was a second building, in a singularly miserable and

dilapidated condition. On the ground-floor, in front of the house, was a

half-subterraneous shop, in which was sold charcoal, fagots, vegetables,

and milk. Nine o’clock in the morning had just struck. The mistress of

the shop, one Mother Arsene, an old woman of a mild, sickly countenance,

clad in a brown stuff dress, with a red bandanna round her head, was

mounted on the top step of the stairs which led down to her door, and

was employed in setting out her goods--that is, on one side of her

door she placed a tin milk-can, and on the other some bunches of stale

vegetables, flanked with yellowed cabbages. At the bottom of the steps,

in the shadowy depths of the cellar, one could see the light of the

burning charcoal in a little stove. This shop situated at the side of

the passage, served as a porter’s lodge, and the old woman acted as

portress. On a sudden, a pretty little creature, coming from the house,

entered lightly and merrily the shop. This young girl was Rose-Pompon,

the intimate friend of the Bacchanal Queen.--Rose-Pompon, a widow for

the moment, whose bacchanalian cicisbeo was Ninny Moulin, the orthodox

scapegrace, who, on occasion, after drinking his fill, could transform

himself into Jacques Dumoulin, the religious writer, and pass gayly from

dishevelled dances to ultramontane polemics, from Storm-blown Tulips to

Catholic pamphlets.

Rose-Pompon had just quitted her bed, as appeared by the negligence of

her strange morning costume; no doubt, for want of any other head-dress,

on her beautiful light hair, smooth and well-combed, was stuck jauntily

a foraging-cap, borrowed from her masquerading costume. Nothing could

be more sprightly than that face, seventeen years old, rosy, fresh,

dimpled, and brilliantly lighted up by a pair of gay, sparkling blue

eyes. Rose Pompon was so closely enveloped from the neck to the feet

in a red and green plaid cloak, rather faded, that one could guess the

cause of her modest embarrassment. Her naked feet, so white that one

could not tell if she wore stockings or not, were slipped into little

morocco shoes, with plated buckles. It was easy to perceive that her

cloak concealed some article which she held in her hand.

“Good-day, Rose-Pompon,” said Mother Arsene with a kindly air; “you are

early this morning. Had you no dance last night?”

“Don’t talk of it, Mother Arsene; I had no heart to dance. Poor

Cephyse--the Bacchanal Queen--has done nothing but cry all night. She

cannot console herself, that her lover should be in prison.”

“Now, look here, my girl,” said the old woman, “I must speak to you

about your friend Cephyse. You won’t be angry?”

“Am I ever angry?” said Rose-Pompon, shrugging her shoulders.

“Don’t you think that M. Philemon will scold me on his return?”

“Scold you! what for?”

“Because of his rooms, that you occupy.”

“Why, Mother Arsene, did not Philemon tell you, that, in his absence, I

was to be as much mistress of his two rooms as I am of himself?”

“I do not speak of you, but of your friend Cephyse, whom you have also

brought to occupy M. Philemon’s lodgings.”

“And where would she have gone without me, my good Mother Arsene? Since

her lover was arrested, she has not dared to return home, because she

owes ever so many quarters. Seeing her troubles. I said to her: ‘Come,

lodge at Philemon’s. When he returns, we must find another place for

you.’”

“Well, little lovey--if you only assure me that M. Philemon will not be

angry--”

“Angry! for what? That we spoil his things? A fine set of things he has

to spoil! I broke his last cup yesterday--and am forced to fetch the

milk in this comic concern.”

So saying, laughing with all her might, Rose-Pompon drew her pretty

little white arm from under her cloak, and presented to Mother Arsene

one of those champagne glasses of colossal capacity, which hold about a

bottle.

“Oh, dear!” said the greengrocer in amazement; “it is like a glass

trumpet.”

“It is Philemon’s grand gala-glass, which they gave him when he took his

degrees in boating,” said Rose-Pompon, gravely.

“And to think you must put your milk in it--I am really ashamed,” said

Mother Arsene.

“So am I! If I were to meet any one on the stairs, holding this glass in

my hand like a Roman candlestick, I should burst out laughing, and

break the last remnant of Philemon’s bazaar, and he would give me his

malediction.”

“There is no danger that you will meet any one. The first-floor is gone

out, and the second gets up very late.”

“Talking of lodgers,” said Rose-Pompon, “is there not a room to let

on the second-floor in the rear house? It might do for Cephyse, when

Philemon comes back.”

“Yes, there is a little closet in the roof--just over the two rooms of

the mysterious old fellow,” said Mother Arsene.

“Oh, yes! Father Charlemagne. Have you found out anything more about

him?”

“Dear me, no, my girl! only that he came this morning at break of day,

and knocked at my shutters. ‘Have you received a letter for me, my good

lady?’ said he--for he is always so polite, the dear man!--‘No, sir,’

said I.’--‘Well, then, pray don’t disturb yourself, my good lady!’ said

he; ‘I will call again.’ And so he went away.”

“Does he never sleep in the house?”

“Never. No doubt, he lodges somewhere else--but he passes some hours

here, once every four or five days.”

“And always comes alone?”

“Always.”

“Are you quite sure? Does he never manage to slip in some little puss

of a woman? Take care, or Philemon will give you notice to quit,” said

Rose-Pompon, with an air of mock-modesty.

“M. Charlemagne with a woman! Oh, poor dear man!” said the greengrocer,

raising her hands to heaven; “if you saw him, with his greasy hat, his

old gray coat, his patched umbrella, and his simple face, he looks more

like a saint than anything else.”

“But then, Mother Arsene, what does the saint do here, all alone for

hours, in that hole at the bottom of the court, where one can hardly see

at noon-day?”

“That’s what I ask myself, my dovey, what can he be doing? It can’t be

that he comes to look at his furniture, for he has nothing but a flock

bed, a table, a stove, a chair, and an old trunk.”

“Somewhat in the style of Philemon’s establishment,” said Rose-Pompon.

“Well, notwithstanding that, Rosey, he is as much afraid that any one

should come into his room, as if we were all thieves, and his furniture

was made of massy gold. He has had a patent lock put on the door, at his

own expense; he never leaves me his key; and he lights his fire himself,

rather than let anybody into his room.”

“And you say he is old?”

“Yes, fifty or sixty.”

“And ugly?”

“Just fancy, little viper’s eyes, looking as if they had been bored with

a gimlet, in a face as pale as death--so pale, that the lips are white.

That’s for his appearance. As for his character, the good old man’s so

polite!--he pulls off his hat so often, and makes you such low bows,

that it is quite embarrassing.”

“But, to come back to the point,” resumed Rose-Pompon, “what can he

do all alone in those two rooms? If Cephyse should take the closet, on

Philemon’s return, we may amuse ourselves by finding out something about

it. How much do they want for the little room?”

“Why, it is in such bad condition, that I think the landlord would let

it go for fifty or fifty-five francs a-year, for there is no room for a

stove, and the only light comes through a small pane in the roof.”

“Poor Cephyse!” said Rose, sighing, and shaking her head sorrowfully.

“After having amused herself so well, and flung away so much money with

Jacques Rennepont, to live in such a place, and support herself by hard

work! She must have courage!”

“Why, indeed, there is a great difference between that closet and the

coach-and-four in which Cephyse came to fetch you the other day, with

all the fine masks, that looked so gay--particularly the fat man in

the silver paper helmet, with the plume and the top boots. What a jolly

fellow!”

“Yes, Ninny Moulin. There is no one like him to dance the forbidden

fruit. You should see him with Cephyse, the Bacchanal Queen. Poor

laughing, noisy thing!--the only noise she makes now is crying.”

“Oh! these young people--these young people!” said the greengrocer.

“Easy, Mother Arsene; you were young once.”

“I hardly know. I have always thought myself much the same as I am now.”

“And your lovers, Mother Arsene?”

“Lovers! Oh, yes! I was too ugly for that--and too well taken care of.”

“Your mother looked after you, then?”

“No, my girl; but I was harnessed.”

“Harnessed!” cried Rose-Pompon, in amazement, interrupting the dealer.

“Yes,--harnessed to a water-cart, along with my brother. So, you see,

when we had drawn like a pair of horses for eight or ten hours a day, I

had no heart to think of nonsense.”

“Poor Mother Arsene, what a hard life,” said Rose-Pompon with interest.

“In the winter, when it froze, it was hard enough. I and my brother were

obliged to be rough-shod, for fear of slipping.”

“What a trade for a woman! It breaks one’s heart. And they forbid people

to harness dogs!” added Rose-Pompon, sententiously.(21)

“Why, ‘tis true,” resumed Mother Arsene. “Animals are sometimes better

off than people. But what would you have? One must live, you know. As

you make your bed, you must lie. It was hard enough, and I got a disease

of the lungs by it--which was not my fault. The strap, with which I

was harnessed, pressed so hard against my chest, that I could scarcely

breathe: so I left the trade, and took to a shop, which is just to tell

you, that if I had had a pretty face and opportunity, I might have done

like so many other young people, who begin with laughter and finish--”

“With a laugh t’other side of the mouth--you would say; it is true,

Mother Arsene. But, you see, every one has not the courage to go into

harness, in order to remain virtuous. A body says to herself, you must

have some amusement while you are young and pretty--you will not always

be seventeen years old--and then--and then--the world will end, or you

will get married.”

“But, perhaps, it would have been better to begin by that.”

“Yes, but one is too stupid; one does not know how to catch the men, or

to frighten them. One is simple, confiding, and they only laugh at us.

Why, Mother Arsene, I am myself an example that would make you shudder;

but ‘tis quite enough to have had one’s sorrows, without fretting one’s

self at the remembrance.”

“What, my beauty! you, so young and gay, have had sorrows?”

“Ah, Mother Arsene! I believe you. At fifteen and a half I began to cry,

and never left off till I was sixteen. That was enough, I think.”

“They deceived you, mademoiselle?”

“They did worse. They treated me as they have treated many a poor girl,

who had no more wish to go wrong than I had. My story is not a three

volume one. My father and mother are peasants near Saint-Valery, but

so poor--so poor, that having five children to provide for, they were

obliged to send me, at eight years old, to my aunt, who was a charwoman

here in Paris. The good woman took me out of charity, and very kind it

was of her, for I earned but little. At eleven years of age she sent me

to work in one of the factories of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. I don’t

wish to speak, ill of the masters of these factories; but what do they

care, if little boys and girls are mixed up pell-mell with young men and

women of eighteen to twenty? Now you see, there, as everywhere, some are

no better than they should be; they are not particular in word or deed,

and I ask you, what art example for the children, who hear and see more

than you think for. Then, what happens? They get accustomed as they grow

older, to hear and see things, that afterwards will not shock them at

all.”

“What you say there is true, Rose-Pompon. Poor children! who takes any

trouble about them?--not their father or mother, for they are at their

daily work.”

“Yes, yes, Mother Arsene, it is all very well; it is easy to cry down a

young girl that has gone wrong; but if they knew all the ins and

outs, they would perhaps pity rather than blame her. To come back to

myself--at fifteen years old I was tolerably pretty. One day I had

something to ask of the head clerk. I went to him in his private room.

He told me he would grant what I wanted, and even take me under his

patronage, if I would listen to him; and he began by trying to kiss me.

I resisted. Then he said to me:--‘You refuse my offer? You shall have no

more work; I discharge you from the factory.’”

“Oh, the wicked man!” said Mother Arsene.

“I went home all in tears, and my poor aunt encouraged me not to yield,

and she would try to place me elsewhere. Yes--but it was impossible;

the factories were all full. Misfortunes never come single; my aunt fell

ill, and there was not a sou in the house; I plucked up my courage, and

returned to entreat the mercy of the clerk at the factory. Nothing would

do. ‘So much the worse,’ said he; ‘you are throwing away your luck. If

you had been more complying, I should perhaps have married you.’ What

could I do, Mother Arsene?--misery was staring me in the face; I had no

work; my aunt was ill; the clerk said he would marry me--I did like so

many others.”

“And when, afterwards, you spoke to him about marriage?”

“Of course he laughed at me, and in six months left me. Then I wept

all the tears in my body, till none remained--then I was very ill--and

then--I console myself, as one may console one’s self for anything.

After some changes, I met with Philemon. It is upon him that I revenge

myself for what others have done to me. I am his tyrant,” added

Rose-Pompon, with a tragic air, as the cloud passed away which had

darkened her pretty face during her recital to Mother Arsene.

“It is true,” said the latter thoughtfully. “They deceive a poor

girl--who is there to protect or defend her? Oh! the evil we do does not

always come from ourselves, and then--”

“I spy Ninny Moulin!” cried Rose-Pompon, interrupting the greengrocer,

and pointing to the other side of the street. “How early abroad! What

can he want with me?” and Rose wrapped herself still more closely and

modestly in her cloak.

It was indeed Jacques Dumoulin, who advanced with his hat stuck on one

side, with rubicund nose and sparkling eye, dressed in a loose coat,

which displayed the rotundity of his abdomen. His hands, one of which

held a huge cane shouldered like a musket, were plunged into the vast

pockets of his outer garment.

Just as he reached the threshold of the door, no doubt with the

intention of speaking to the portress, he perceived Rose-Pompon. “What!”

he exclaimed, “my pupil already stirring? That is fortunate. I came on

purpose to bless her at the rise of morn!”

So saying, Ninny Moulin advanced with open arms towards Rose-Pompon who

drew back a step.

“What, ungrateful child!” resumed the writer on divinity. “Will you

refuse me the morning’s paternal kiss?”

“I accept paternal kisses from none but Philemon. I had a letter from

him yesterday, with a jar of preserves, two geese, a bottle of home-made

brandy, and an eel. What ridiculous presents! I kept the drink, and

changed the rest for two darling live pigeons, which I have installed

in Philemon’s cabinet, and a very pretty dove-cote it makes me. For the

rest, my husband is coming back with seven hundred francs, which he got

from his respectable family, under pretence of learning the bass viol,

the cornet-a-piston, and the speaking trumpet, so as to make his way in

society, and a slap-up marriage--to use your expression--my good child.”

“Well, my dear pupil, we will taste the family brandy, and enjoy

ourselves in expectation of Philemon and his seven hundred francs.”

So saying, Ninny Moulin slapped the pockets of his waistcoat, which

gave forth a metallic sound, and added: “I come to propose to you to

embellish my life, to-day and to-morrow, and even the day after, if your

heart is willing.”

“If the announcements are decent and fraternal, my heart does not say

no.”

“Be satisfied; I will act by you as your grandfather, your great

grandfather, your family portrait. We will have a ride, a dinner, the

play, a fancy dress ball, and a supper afterwards. Will that suit you?”

“On condition that poor Cephyse is to go with us. It will raise her

spirits.”

“Well, Cephyse shall be of the party.”

“Have you come into a fortune, great apostle?”

“Better than that, most rosy and pompous of all Rose-Pom, pons! I am

head editor of a religious journal; and as I must make some appearance

in so respectable a concern, I ask every month for four weeks in

advance, and three days of liberty. On this condition, I consent to play

the saint for twenty-seven days out of thirty, and to be always as grave

and heavy as the paper itself.”

“A journal! that will be something droll, and dance forbidden steps all

alone on the tables of the cafes.”

“Yes, it will be droll enough; but not for everybody. They are rich

sacristans, who pay the expenses. They don’t look to money, provided the

journal bites, tears, burns, pounds, exterminates and destroys. On my

word of honor, I shall never have been in such a fury!” added Ninny

Moulin, with a loud, hoarse laugh. “I shall wash the wounds of my

adversaries with venom of the finest vintage, and gall of the first

quality.”

For his peroration, Ninny Moulin imitated the pop of uncorking a bottle

of champagne--which made Rose-Pompon laugh heartily.

“And what,” resumed she, “will be the name of your journal of

sacristans?”

“It will be called ‘Neighborly Love.’”

“Come! that is a very pretty name.”

“Wait a little! there is a second title.”

“Let us hear it.”

“‘Neighborly Love; or, the Exterminator of the Incredulous, the

Indifferent, the Lukewarm, and Others,’ with this motto from the great

Bossuet: ‘Those who are not for us are against us.’”

“That is what Philemon says in the battles at the Chaumiere, when he

shakes his cane.”

“Which proves, that the genius of the Eagle of Meaux is universal. I

only reproach him for having been jealous of Moliere.”

“Bah! actor’s jealousy,” said Rose-Pompon.

“Naughty girl!” cried Ninny Moulin, threatening her with his finger.

“But if you are going to exterminate Madame de la Sainte-Colombo, who is

somewhat lukewarm--how about your marriage?”

“My journal will advance it, on the contrary. Only think! editor-In

chief is a superb position; the sacristans will praise, and push, and

support, and bless me; I shall get La-Sainte-Colombe--and then, what a

life I’ll lead!”

At this moment, a postman entered the shop, and delivered a letter to

the greengrocer, saying: “For M. Charlemagne, post-paid!”

“My!” said Rose-Pompon; “it is for the little mysterious old man, who

has such extraordinary ways. Does it come from far?”

“I believe you; it comes from Italy, from Rome,” said Ninny Moulin,

looking in his turn at the letter, which the greengrocer held in her

hand. “Who is the astonishing little old man of whom you speak?”

“Just imagine to yourself, my great apostle,” said Rose-Pompon, “a

little old man, who has two rooms at the bottom of that court. He never

sleeps there, but comes from time to time, and shuts himself up for

hours, without ever allowing any one to enter his lodging, and without

any one knowing what he does there.”

“He is a conspirator,” said Ninny Moulin, laughing, “or else a comer.”

“Poor dear man,” said Mother Arsene, “what has he done with his false

money? He pays me always in sous for the bit of bread and the radish I

furnish him for his breakfast.”

“And what is the name of this mysterious chap?” asked Dumoulin.

“M. Charlemagne,” said the greengrocer. “But look, surely one speaks of

the devil, one is sure to see his horns.”

“Where’s the horns?”

“There, by the side of the house--that little old man, who walks with

his neck awry, and his umbrella under his arm.”

“M. Rodin!” ejaculated Ninny Moulin, retreating hastily, and descending

three steps into the shop, in order not to be seen. Then he added. “You

say, that this gentleman calls himself--”

“M. Charlemagne--do you know him?” asked the greengrocer.

“What the devil does he do here, under a false name?” said Jacques

Dumoulin to himself.

“You know him?” said Rose-Pompon, with impatience. “You are quite

confused.”

“And this gentleman has two rooms in this house, and comes here

mysteriously,” said Jacques Dumoulin, more and more surprised.

“Yes,” resumed Rose-Pompon; “you can see his windows from Philemon’s

dove-cote.”

“Quick! quick! let me go into the passage, that I may not meet him,”

said Dumoulin.

And, without having been perceived by Rodin, he glided from the shop

into the passage, and thence mounted to the stairs, which led to the

apartment occupied by Rose-Pompon.

“Good-morning, M. Charlemagne,” said Mother Arsene to Rodin, who made

his appearance on the threshold. “You come twice in a day; that is

right, for your visits are extremely rare.”

“You are too polite, my good lady,” said Rodin, with a very courteous

bow; and he entered the shop of the greengrocer.

(21) There are, really, ordinances, full of a touching interest for the

canine race, which forbid the harnessing of dogs.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE DEN.

Rodin’s countenance, when he entered Mother Arsene’s shop, was

expressive of the most simple candor. He leaned his hands on the knob of

his umbrella, and said: “I much regret, my good lady, that I roused you

so early this morning.”

“You do not come often enough, my dear sir, for me to find fault with

you.”

“How can I help it, my good lady? I live in the country, and only come

hither from time to time to settle my little affairs.”

“Talking of that sir, the letter you expected yesterday has arrived

this morning. It is large, and comes from far. Here it is,” said the

greengrocer, drawing it from her pocket; “it cost nothing for postage.”

“Thank you, my dear lady,” said Rodin, taking the letter with apparent

indifference, and putting it into the side-pocket of his great-coat,

which he carefully buttoned over.

“Are you going up to your rooms, sir?”

“Yes, my good, lady.”

“Then I will get ready your little provisions,” said Mother Arsene; “as

usual, I suppose, my dear sir?”

“Just as usual.”

“It shall be ready in the twinkling of an eye, sir.”

So saying, the greengrocer took down an old basket; after throwing

into it three or four pieces of turf, a little bundle of wood, and some

charcoal, she covered all this fuel with a cabbage leaf; then, going to

the further end of the shop, she took from a chest a large round loaf,

cut off a slice, and selecting a magnificent radish with the eye of a

connoisseur, divided it in two, made a hole in it, which she filled with

gray salt joined the two pieces together again, and placed it carefully

by the side of the bread, on the cabbage leaf which separated the

eatables from the combustibles. Finally, taking some embers from the

stove, she put them into a little earthen pot, containing ashes, which

she placed also in the basket.

Then, reascending to her top step, Mother Arsene said to Rodin: “Here is

your basket, sir.”

“A thousand thanks, my good lady,” answered Rodin, and plunging his

hand into the pocket of his trousers, he drew forth eight sous, which he

counted out only one by one to the greengrocer, and said to her, as he

carried off his store: “Presently, when I come down again, I will return

your basket as usual.”

“Quite at your service, my dear sir, quite at your service,” said Mother

Arsene.

Rodin tucked his umbrella under his left arm, took up the greengrocer’s

basket with his right hand, entered the dark passage, crossed the little

court and mounted with light step to the second story of a dilapidated

building; there, drawing a key from his pocket, he opened a door, which

he locked carefully after him. The first of the two rooms which he

occupied was completely unfurnished, as for the second, it is impossible

to imagine a more gloomy and miserable den. Papering so much worn, torn

and faded, that no one could recognize its primitive color, bedecked

the walls. A wretched flock-bed, covered with a moth-fretted blanket; a

stool, and a little table of worm-eaten wood; an earthenware stove, as

cracked as old china; a trunk with a padlock, placed under the bed--such

was the furniture of this desolate hole. A narrow window, with dirty

panes, hardly gave any light to this room, which was almost deprived

of air by the height of the building in front; two old cotton pocket

handkerchiefs, fastened together with pins, and made to slide upon a

string stretched across the window, served for curtains. The plaster

of the roof, coming through the broken and disjointed tiles, showed the

extreme neglect of the inhabitant of this abode. After locking his door,

Rodin threw his hat and umbrella on the bed, placed his basket on the

ground, set the radish and bread on the table, and kneeling down before

his stove, stuffed it with fuel, and lighted it by blowing with vigorous

lungs on the embers contained in his earthen pot.

When, to use the consecrated expression, the stove began to draw, Rodin

spread out the handkerchiefs, which served him for curtains; then,

thinking himself quite safe from every eye, he took from the side-pocket

of his great-coat the letter that Mother Arsene had given him. In doing

so, he brought out several papers and different articles; one of these

papers, folded into a thick and rumpled packet, fell upon the table,

and flew open. It contained a silver cross of the Legion of Honor, black

with time. The red ribbon of this cross had almost entirely lost its

original color. At sight of this cross, which he replaced in his pocket

with the medal of which Faringhea had despoiled Djalma, Rodin shrugged

his shoulders with a contemptuous and sardonic air; then, producing his

large silver watch, he laid it on the table by the side of the letter

from Rome. He looked at this letter with a singular mixture of suspicion

and hope, of fear, and impatient curiosity. After a moment’s reflection,

he prepared to unseal the envelope; but suddenly he threw it down again

upon the table, as if, by a strange caprice, he had wished to prolong

for a few minutes that agony of uncertainty, as poignant and irritating

as the emotion of the gambler.

Looking at his watch, Rodin resolved not to open the letter, until the

hand should mark half-past nine, of which it still wanted seven minutes.

In one of those whims of puerile fatalism, from which great minds have

not been exempt, Rodin said to himself: “I burn with impatience to open

this letter. If I do not open it till half-past nine, the news will be

favorable.” To employ these minutes, Rodin took several turns up and

down the room, and stood in admiring contemplation before two old

prints, stained with damp and age, and fastened to the wall by rusty

nails. The first of these works of art--the only ornaments with which

Rodin had decorated this hole--was one of those coarse pictures,

illuminated with red, yellow, green, and blue, such as are sold at

fairs; an Italian inscription announced that this print had been

manufactured at Rome. It represented a woman covered with rags, bearing

a wallet, and having a little child upon her knees; a horrible hag of

a fortune-teller held in her hands the hand of the little child, and

seemed to read there his future fate, for these words in large blue

letters issued from her mouth: “Sara Papa” (he shall be Pope).

The second of these works of art, which appeared to inspire Rodin with

deep meditations, was an excellent etching, whose careful finish and

bold, correct drawing, contrasted singularly with the coarse coloring

of the other picture. This rare and splendid engraving, which had cost

Rodin six louis (an enormous expense for him), represented a young boy

dressed in rags. The ugliness of his features was compensated by the

intellectual expression of his strongly marked countenance. Seated on

a stone, surrounded by a herd of swine, that he seemed employed in

keeping, he was seen in front, with his elbow resting on his knee, and

his chin in the palm of his hand. The pensive and reflective attitude

of this young man, dressed as a beggar, the power expressed in his large

forehead, the acuteness of his penetrating glance, and the firm lines

of the mouth, seemed to reveal indomitable resolution, combined with

superior intelligence and ready craft. Beneath this figure, the emblems

of the papacy encircled a medallion, in the centre of which was the

head of an old man, the lines of which, strongly marked, recalled in

a striking manner, notwithstanding their look of advanced age, the

features of the young swineherd. This engraving was entitled THE YOUTH

of SIXTUS V.; the color print was entitled The Prediction.(22)

In contemplating these prints more and more nearly, with ardent and

inquiring eye, as though he had asked for hopes or inspirations from

them, Rodin had come so close that, still standing, with his right arm

bent behind his head, he rested, as it were, against the wall, whilst,

hiding his left hand in the pocket of his black trousers, he thus held

back one of the flaps of his olive great-coat. For some minutes, he

remained in this meditative attitude.

Rodin, as we have said, came seldom to this lodging; according to the

rules of his Order, he had till now lived with Father d’Aigrigny,

whom he was specially charged to watch. No member of the Society,

particularly in the subaltern position which Rodin had hitherto held,

could either shut himself in, or possess an article of furniture made

to lock. By this means nothing interferes with the mutual spy-system,

incessantly carried on, which forms one of the most powerful resources

of the Company of Jesus. It was on account of certain combinations,

purely personal to himself, though connected on some points with the

interests of the Order, that Rodin, unknown to all, had taken these

rooms in the Rue Clovis. And it was from the depths of this obscure

den that the socius corresponded directly with the most eminent and

influential personages of the sacred college. On one occasion, when

Rodin wrote to Rome, that Father d’Aigrigny, having received orders to

quit France without seeing his dying mother, had hesitated to set out,

the socius had added, in form of postscriptum, at the bottom of the

letter denouncing to the General of the Order the hesitation of Father

d’Aigrigny:

“Tell the Prince Cardinal that he may rely upon me, but I hope for his

active aid in return.”

This familiar manner of corresponding with the most powerful dignitary

of the Order, the almost patronizing tone of the recommendation

that Rodin addressed to the Prince Cardinal, proved that the socius,

notwithstanding his apparently subaltern position, was looked upon, at

that epoch, as a very important personage, by many of the Princes of the

Church, who wrote to him at Paris under a false name, making use of a

cipher and other customary precautions. After some moments passed in

contemplation, before the portrait of Sixtus V., Rodin returned slowly

to the table, on which lay the letter, which, by a sort of superstitious

delay, he had deferred opening, notwithstanding his extreme curiosity.

As it still wanted some minutes of half-past nine, Rodin, in order not

to lose time, set about making preparations for his frugal breakfast.

He placed on the table, by the side of an inkstand, furnished with pens,

the slice of bread and the radish; then seating himself on his stool,

with the stove, as it were, between his legs, he drew a horn-handled

knife from his pocket, and cutting alternately a morsel of bread and a

morsel of radish, with a sharp, well-worn blade, he began his temperate

repast with a vigorous appetite, keeping his eye fixed on the hand of

his watch. When it reached the momentous hour, he unsealed the envelope

with a trembling hand.

It contained two letters. The first appeared to give him little

satisfaction; for, after some minutes, he shrugged his shoulders, struck

the table impatiently with the handle of his knife, disdainfully pushed

aside the letter with the back of his dirty hand, and perused the second

epistle, holding his bread in one hand, and with the other mechanically

dipping a slice of radish into the gray salt spilt on a corner of the

table. Suddenly, Rodin’s hand remained motionless. As he progressed

in his reading, he appeared more and more interested, surprised, and

struck. Rising abruptly, he ran to the window, as if to assure himself,

by a second examination of the cipher, that he was not deceived. The

news announced to him in the letter seemed to be unexpected. No doubt,

Rodin found that he had deciphered correctly, for, letting fall his

arms, not in dejection, but with the stupor of a satisfaction as

unforeseen as extraordinary, he remained for some time with his head

down, and his eyes fixed--the only mark of joy that he gave being

manifested by a loud, frequent, and prolonged respiration. Men who are

as audacious in their ambition, as they are patient and obstinate in

their mining and countermining, are surprised at their own success, when

this latter precedes and surpasses their wise and prudent expectations.

Rodin was now in this case. Thanks to prodigies of craft, address, and

dissimulation, thanks to mighty promises of corruption, thanks to the

singular mixture of admiration, fear, and confidence, with which his

genius inspired many influential persons, Rodin now learned from members

of the pontifical government, that, in case of a possible and probable

occurrence, he might, within a given time, aspire, with a good chance of

success, to a position which has too often excited the fear, the hate,

or the envy of many sovereigns, and which has in turn, been occupied by

great, good men, by abominable scoundrels, and by persons risen from

the lowest grades of society. But for Rodin to attain this end with

certainty, it was absolutely necessary for him to succeed in that

project, which he had undertaken to accomplish without violence, and

only by the play and the rebound of passions skillfully managed. The

project was: To secure for the Society of Jesus the fortune of the

Rennepont family.

This possession would thus have a double and immense result; for Rodin,

acting in accordance with his personal views, intended to make of his

Order (whose chief was at his discretion) a stepping-stone and a means

of intimidation. When his first impression of surprise had passed

away--an impression that was only a sort of modesty of ambition and

self diffidence, not uncommon with men of really superior powers--Rodin

looked more coldly and logically on the matter, and almost reproached

himself for his surprise. But soon after, by a singular contradiction,

yielding to one of those puerile and absurd ideas, by which men are

often carried away when they think themselves alone and unobserved,

Rodin rose abruptly, took the letter which had caused him such glad

surprise, and went to display it, as it were, before the eyes of the

young swineherd in the picture: then, shaking his head proudly and

triumphantly, casting his reptile-glance on the portrait, he muttered

between his teeth, as he placed his dirty finger on the pontifical

emblem: “Eh, brother? and I also--perhaps!”

After this ridiculous interpolation, Rodin returned to his seat, and,

as if the happy news he had just received had increased his appetite, he

placed the letter before him, to read it once more, whilst he exercised

his teeth, with a sort of joyous fury, on his hard bread and radish,

chanting an old Litany.

There was something strange, great, and, above all, frightful, in the

contrast afforded by this immense ambition, already almost justified

by events, and contained, as it were, in so miserable an abode. Father

d’Aigrigny (who, if not a very superior man, had at least some real

value, was a person of high birth, very haughty, and placed in the best

society) would never have ventured to aspire to what Rodin thus looked

to from the first. The only aim of Father d’Aigrigny, and even this

he thought presumptuous, was to be one day elected General of his

Order--that Order which embraced the world. The difference of the

ambitious aptitudes of these two personages is conceivable. When a man

of eminent abilities, of a healthy and vivacious nature, concentrates

all the strength of his mind and body upon a single point, remaining,

like Rodin, obstinately chaste and frugal, and renouncing every

gratification of the heart and the senses--the man, who revolts against

the sacred designs of his Creator, does so almost always in favor of

some monstrous and devouring passion--some infernal divinity, which,

by a sacrilegious pact, asks of him, in return for the bestowal of

formidable power, the destruction of every noble sentiment, and of all

those ineffable attractions and tender instincts with which the Maker,

in His eternal wisdom and inexhaustible munificence, has so paternally

endowed His creatures.

During the scene that we have just described, Rodin had not perceived

that the curtain of a window on the third story of the building opposite

had been partially drawn aside, and had half-revealed the sprightly face

of Rose-Pompon, and the Silenus-like countenance of Ninny Moulin.

It ensued that Rodin, notwithstanding his barricade of cotton

handkerchiefs, had not been completely sheltered from the indiscreet and

curious examination of the two dancers of the Storm-blown Tulip.

(22) According to the tradition, it was predicted to the mother of

Sixtus V., that he would be pope; and, in his youth, he is said to have

kept swine.

CHAPTER XXX. AN UNEXPECTED VISIT.

Though Rodin had experienced much surprise on reading the second letter

from Rome, he did not choose that his answer should betray any such

amazement. Having finished his frugal breakfast, he took a sheet of

paper, and rapidly wrote in cipher the following note, in the short,

abrupt style that was natural to him when not obliged to restrain

himself:

“The information does not surprise me. I had foreseen it all. Indecision

and cowardice always bear such fruit. This is not enough. Heretical

Russia murders Catholic Poland. Rome blesses the murderers, and curses

the victims.(23)

“Let it pass.

“In return, Russia guarantees to Rome, by Austria, the bloody

suppression of the patriots of Romagna.

“That, too, is well.

“The cut-throat band of good Cardinal Albani is not sufficient for the

massacre of the impious liberals. They are weary of the task.

“Not so well. They must go on.”

When Rodin had written these last words, his attention was suddenly

attracted by the clear and sonorous voice of Rose-Pompon, who, knowing

her Beranger by heart, had opened Philemon’s window, and, seated on the

sill, sang with much grace and prettiness this verse of the immortal

song-writer:

“How wrong you are! Is’t you dare say

That heaven ever scowls on earth?

The earth that laughs up to its blue,

The earth that owes it joy and birth?

Oh, may the wine from vines it warms,

May holy love thence fluttering down,

Lend my philosophy their charms,

To drive away care’s direful frown!

So, firm let’s stand,

Full glass in hand,

And all evoke

The God of honest folk!”