in 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!"

This song, in its divine gentleness, contrasted so strangely with the
cold cruelty of the few lines written by Rodin, that he started and bit
his lips with rage, as he recognized the words of the great poet, truly
Christian, who had dealt such rude blows