f his devouring tortures,
Adrienne had felt, perhaps even more intensely. Electrified by the
passionate words of Djalma, so beautiful in his excitement, her courage
failed, and she perceived that an irresistible languor was creeping
over her. By a last chaste effort of the will, she rose abruptly, and
hastening to the door, which communicated with Mother Bunch's chamber,
she exclaimed: "My sister! help me!"

In another moment, Mdlle. de Cardoville, her face bathed in tears,
clasped the young sempstress in her arms; while Djalma knelt
respectfully on the threshold he did not dare to pass.

CHAPTER LXI. AMBITION.

A few days after the interview of Djalma and Adrienne, just described,
Rodin was alone in his bed-chamber, in the house in the Rue de
Vaugirard, walking up and down the room where he had so valiantly
undergone the moxas of Dr. Baleinier. With his hands thrust into the
hind-pockets of his greatcoat, and his head bowed upon his breast, the
Jesuit seemed to be reflecting profoundly, and his varying walk, now
slow, now quick, betrayed the agitation of his mind.

"On the side of Rome," said Rodin to himself, "I am tranquil. All is
going well. The abdication is as good as settled, and if I can pay them
the price agreed, the Prince Cardinal can secure me a majority of nine
voices in the conclave. Our General is with me; the doubts of Cardinal
Malipieri are at an end, or have found no echo. Yet I am not quite easy,
with regard to the reported correspondence between Father d'Aigrigny and
Malipieri. I have not been able to intercept any of it. No matter; that
soldier's business is settled. A little patience and he will be wiped
out."

Here the pale lips were contracted by one of those frightful smiles,
which gave to Rodin's countenance so diabolical an expression.

After a pause, he resumed: "The funeral of the freethinker, the
philanthropist, the workman's friend, took place yesterday at St.
Herem. Francis Hardy went off in a fit of ecstatic delirium. I had
his donation, it is true; but this is more certain. Everything may be
disputed in this world; the dead dispute nothing."

Rodin remained in thought for some moments; then he added, in a grave
tone: "There remain this red-haired wench and her mulatto. This is the
twenty-seventh of May; the first of June approaches, and these turtle
doves still seem invulnerable. The princess thought she had hit upon
a good plan, and I should have thought so too. It was a