and hateful
smile, "that Rodin is a man of rare dissimulation, patience, energy,
obstinacy and intelligence. Who would have told a few months ago, when
he wrote under my orders, a discreet and humble socius, that he had
already conceived the most audacious ambition, and dared to lift his
eyes to the Holy See itself? that, thanks to intrigues and corruption,
pursued with wondrous ability, these views were not so unreasonable?
Nay, that this infernal ambition would soon be realized, were it not
that the secret proceedings of this dangerous man have long been as
secretly watched?--Ah!" sneered Father d'Aigrigny, with a smile of
irony and triumph, "you wish to be a second Sixtus V., do you? And,
not content with this audacious pretension, you mean, if successful, to
absorb our Company in the Papacy, even as the Sultan has absorbed the
Janissaries. Ah! You would make us your stepping-stone to power! And you
have thought to humiliate and crush me with your insolent disdain! But
patience, patience: the day of retribution approaches. I alone am the
depository of our General's will. Father Caboccini himself does not
know that. The fate of Rodin is in my hands. Oh! it will not be what he
expects. In this Rennepont affair (which, I must needs confess, he has
managed admirably), he thinks to outwit us all, and to work only for
himself. But to-morrow--"

Father d'Aigrigny was suddenly disturbed in these agreeable reflections.
He heard the door of the next room open, and, as he turned round to see
who was coming, the door of the apartment in which he was turned upon
its hinges. Father d'Aigrigny started with surprise, and became almost
purple. Marshal Simon stood before him. And, behind the marshal, in the
shadow of the door, Father d'Aigrigny perceived the cadaverous face
of Rodin. The latter cast on him one glance of diabolical delight, and
instantly disappeared. The door was again closed, and Father d'Aigrigny
and Marshal Simon were left alone together. The father of Rose and
Blanche was hardly recognizable. His gray hair had become completely
white. His pale, thin face had not been shaved for some days. His hollow
eyes were bloodshot and restless, and had in them something wild and
haggard. He was wrapped in a large cloak, and his black cravat was tied
loosely about his neck. In withdrawing from the apartment, Rodin had (as
if by inadvertence) double-locked the door on the outside. When he
was alone with the Jesuit, the marshal t