hrew back his cloak from his
shoulders, and Father d'Aigrigny could see two naked swords, stuck
through a silk handkerchief which served him as a belt.

Father d'Aigrigny understood it all. He remembered how, a few days
before, Rodin had obstinately pressed him to say what he would do if the
marshal were to strike him in the face. There could be no doubt that
he, who thought to have held the fate of Rodin in his hands, had been
brought by the latter into a fearful peril; for he knew that, the two
outer rooms being closed, there was no possibility of making himself
heard, and that the high walls of the garden only bordered upon some
vacant lots. The first thought which occurred to him, one by no means
destitute of probability, was that Rodin, either by his agents at Rome,
or by his own incredible penetration, had learned that his fate
depended on Father d'Aigrigny, and hoped therefore to get rid of him,
by delivering him over to the inexorable vengeance of the father of
Rose and Blanche. Without speaking a word, the marshal unbound the
handkerchief from his waist, laid the two swords upon the table,
and, folding his arms upon his breast, advanced slowly towards Father
d'Aigrigny. Thus these two men, who through life had pursued each other
with implacable hatred, at length met face to face--they, who had fought
in hostile armies, and measured swords in single combat, and one of whom
now came to seek vengeance for the death of his children. As the marshal
approached, Father d'Aigrigny rose from his seat. He wore that day a
black cassock, which rendered still more visible the pale hue, which had
now succeeded to the sudden flush on his cheek. For a few seconds, the
two men stood face to face without speaking. The marshal was terrific
in his paternal despair. His calmness, inexorable as fate, was more
impressive than the most furious burst of anger.

"My children are dead," said he at last, in a slow and hollow tone. "I
come to kill you."

"Sir," cried Father d'Aigrigny, "listen to me. Do not believe--"

"I must kill you," resumed the marshal, interrupting the Jesuit; "your
hate followed my wife into exile, where she perished. You and your
accomplices sent my children to certain death. For twenty years you have
been my evil genius. I must have your life, and I will have it."

"My life belongs, first, to God," answered Father d'Aigrigny, piously,
"and then to who likes to take it."

"We will fight to the death in this r