Thinking he would also make use of the sprinkling-brush, which,
Faringhea, still motionless, held with a trembling hand, Father
Caboccini stretched out his fingers to reach it, when the half-breed,
as if determined to confine his favors to Rodin, hastily withdrew the
instrument. Deceived in his expectation, Father Caboccini lost no time
in following Rodin, whom he was not to leave that day for a single
moment, and, getting into a hackney-coach with him, set out for the Rue
Saint-Francois. It is impossible to describe the look which the half
breed fixed upon Rodin as the latter quitted the chapel. Left alone in
the sacred edifice, Faringhea sank upon the stones, half kneeling, half
crouching, with his face buried in his hands. As the coach drew near
the quarter of the Marais, in which was situated the house of Marius
de Rennepont, a feverish agitation, and the devouring impatience of
triumph, were visible on the countenance of Rodin. Two or three times he
opened his pocketbook, and read and arranged the different certificates
of death of the various members of the Rennepont family; and from time
to time he thrust his head anxiously from the coach-window, as if he had
wished to hasten the slow progress of the vehicle.

The good little father, his socius, did not take his eye off Rodin, and
his look had a strange and crafty expression. At last the coach entered
the Rue Saint-Francois, and stopped before the iron-studded door of the
old house, which had been closed for a century and a half. Rodin sprang
from the coach with the agility of a young man, and knocked violently
at the door, whilst Father Caboccini, less light of foot, descended more
prudently to the ground. No answer was returned to the loud knocking
of Rodin. Trembling with anxiety, he knocked again. This time, as he
listened attentively, he heard slow steps approaching. They stopped at
some distance from the door, which was not yet opened.

"It is keeping one upon red-hot coals," said Rodin, for he felt as
if there was a burning fire in his chest. He again shook the door
violently, and began to gnaw his nails according to his custom.

Suddenly the door opened, and Samuel, the Jew guardian, appeared beneath
the porch. The countenance of the old man expressed bitter grief. Upon
his venerable cheeks were the traces of recent tears, which he strove to
dry with his trembling hands, as he opened the door to Rodin.

"Who are you, gentlemen?" said Samuel.

"I am