to breathe with less
difficulty.

Suddenly Rodin placed his hand on his forehead, as if struck with some
new idea, and turning his head towards Dr. Baleinier, made a sign to him
to suspend the operation.

"I must tell you, reverend father," answered the doctor, "that it is not
half finished, and, if we leave off, the renewal will be more painful--"

Rodin made a sign that he did not care, and that he wanted to write.

"Gentlemen, stop a moment," said Dr. Baleinier; "keep down your moxas,
but do not blow the fire."

So the fire was to burn slowly, instead of fiercely, but still upon the
skin of the patient. In spite of this pain, less intense, but still sharp
and keen, Rodin, stretched upon his back, began to write, holding the
paper above his head. On the first sheet he traced some alphabetic signs,
part of a cipher known to himself alone. In the midst of the torture, a
luminous idea had crossed his mind; fearful of forgetting it amidst his
sufferings, he now took note of it. On another paper he wrote the
following, which was instantly delivered to Father d'Aigrigny: "Send B.
immediately to Faringhea, for the report of the last few days with regard
to Djalma, and let B. bring it hither on the instant." Father d'Aigrigny
went out to execute this new order. The cardinal approached a little
nearer to the scene of the operation, for, in spite of the bad odor of
the room, he took delight in seeing the Jesuit half roasted, having long
cherished against him the rancor of an Italian and a priest.

"Come, reverend father," said the doctor to Rodin, "continue to be
admirably courageous, and your chest will free itself. You have still a
bitter moment to go through--and then I have good hope."

The patient resumed his former position. The moment Father d'Aigrigny
returned, Rodin questioned him with a look, to which the reverend father
replied by a nod. At a sign from the doctor, the four assistants began to
blow through the tubes with all their might. This increase of torture was
so horrible, that, in spite of his self-control, Rodin gnashed his teeth,
started convulsively, and so expanded his palpitating chest, that, after
a violent spasm, there rose from his throat and lungs a scream of
terrific pain--but it was free, loud, sonorous.

"The chest is free!" cried the doctor, in triumph. "The lungs have
play--the voice returns--he is saved!--Blow, gentlemen, blow; and,
reverend father, cry out as much as you please: I shall