s too much! too much!" said the Jesuit, seizing the pointed
piece of the blade that lay at his feet.

"It is not enough!" said the marshal, panting for breath. "There,
Judas!" and he spat in his face.

"If you will not fight now," added the marshal, "I will beat you like a
dog, base child-murderer!"

On receiving the uttermost insult which can be offered to an already
insulted man, Father d'Aigrigny lost all his presence of mind, forgot
his interests, his resolutions, his fears, forgot even Rodin--felt only
the frenzied ardor of revenge--and, recovering his courage, rejoiced
in the prospect of a close struggle, in which his superior strength
promised success over the enfeebled frame of the marshal for, in this
kind of brutal and savage combat, physical strength offers an immense
advantage. In an instant, Father d'Aigrigny had rolled his handkerchief
round the broken blade, and rushed upon Marshal Simon, who received the
shock with intrepidity. For the short time that this unequal struggle
lasted--unequal, for the marshal had since some days been a prey to a
devouring fever, which had undermined his strength--the two combatants,
mute in their fury, uttered not a word or a cry. Had any one been
present at this horrible scene, it would have been impossible for him
to tell how they dealt their blows. He would have seen two
heads--frightful, livid, convulsed--rising, falling, now here,
now there--arms, now stiff as bars of iron, and now twisting like
serpents--and, in the midst of the undulation of the blue coat of the
marshal and the black cassock of the Jesuit, from time to time the
sudden gleam of the steel. He would have heard only a dull stamping,
and now and then a deep breath. In about two minutes at most, the two
adversaries fell, and rolled one over the other. One of them--it was
Father d'Aigrigny--contrived to disengage himself with a violent effort,
and to rise upon his knees. His arms fell powerless by his side; and
then the dying voice of the marshal murmured: "My children! Dagobert!"

"I have killed him," said Father d'Aigrigny, in a weak voice; "but I
feel--that I am wounded--to death."

Leaning with one hand on the ground, the Jesuit pressed the other to
his bosom. His black cassock was pierced through and through, but the
blades, which had served for the combat, being triangular and very
sharp, the blood instead of issuing from the wounds, was flowing
inwards.

"Oh! I die--I choke," said Father d'Aigr