igny, whose features were
already changing with the approach of death.

At this moment, the key turned twice in the door, Rodin appeared on the
threshold, and, thrusting in his head, he said in a humble and discreet
voice: "May I come in?"

At this dreadful irony, Father d'Aigrigny strove to rise, and rush upon
Rodin; but he fell back exhausted; the blood was choking him.

"Monster of hell!" he muttered, casting on Rodin a terrible glance of
rage and agony. "Thou art the cause of my death."

"I always told you, my dear father, that your old military habits would
be fatal to you," answered Rodin with a frightful smile. "Only a few
days ago, I gave you warning, and advised you take a blow patiently from
this old swordsman--who seems to have done with that work forever, which
is well--for the Scripture says: 'All they that take the sword shall
perish with the sword.' And then this Marshal Simon might have had some
claim on his daughter's inheritance. And, between ourselves, my dear
father, what was I to do? It was necessary to sacrifice you for the
common interest; the rather, that I well knew what you had in pickle for
me to-morrow. But I am not so easily caught napping."

"Before I die," said Father d'Aigrigny, in a failing voice, "I will
unmask you."

"Oh, no, you will not," said Rodin, shaking his head with a knowing air;
"I alone, if you please, will receive your last confession."

"Oh! this is horrible," moaned Father d'Aigrigny, whose eyes were
closing. "May God have mercy on me, if it is not too late!--Alas! at
this awful moment, I feel that I have been a great sinner--"

"And, above all, a great fool," said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders, and
watching with cold disdain the dying moments of his accomplice.

Father d'Aigrigny had now but a few minutes more to live. Rodin
perceived it, and said: "It is time to call for help." And the Jesuit
ran, with an air of alarm and consternation, into the courtyard of the
house.

Others came at his cries; but, as he had promised, Rodin had only
quitted Father d'Aigrigny as the latter had breathed his last sigh.

That evening, alone in his chamber, by the glimmer of a little lamp,
Rodin sat plunged in a sort of ecstatic contemplation, before the print
representing Sixtus V. The great house-clock struck twelve. At the last
stroke, Rodin drew himself up in all the savage majesty of his infernal
triumph, and exclaimed: "This is the first of June. There are no more
Renne