pired. They seemed to be in the
first hour of the eternal sleep.[44]

"Behold those whom thou host slain!" cried Samuel, in a voice broken with
sobs. "Yea! your detestable plots caused their death--and, as they fell
one by one, it was my pious care to obtain possession of their poor
remains, that they may all repose in the same sepulchre.
Oh!--cursed--cursed--cursed--be thou who has killed them! But their
spoils shall escape thy murderous hands."

Rodin, still drawn forward in spite of himself, had approached the
funeral couch of Djalma. Surmounting his first alarm, the Jesuit, to
assure himself that he was not the sport of frightful dream, ventured to
touch the hands of the Asiatic--and found that they were damp and pliant,
though cold as ice.

The Jesuit drew back in horror. For some seconds, he trembled
convulsively. But, his first amazement over, reflection returned, and,
with reflection came that invincible energy, that infernal obstinacy of
character, that gave him so much power. Steadying himself on his legs,
drawing his hand across his brow, raising his head, moistening his lips
two or three times before he spoke--for his throat and mouth grew ever
drier and hotter, without his being able to explain the cause--he
succeeded in giving to his features an imperious and ironical expression,
and, turning towards Samuel, who wept in silence, he said to him, in a
hoarse, guttural voice: "I need not show you the certificates of their
death. There they are in person." And he pointed with his bony hand to
the six dead bodies.

At these words of his General, Father Caboccini again made the sign of
the cross, as if he had seen a fiend.

"Oh, my God!" cried Samuel; "Thou hast quite abandoned this man. With
what a calm look he contemplates his victims!"

"Come, sir!" said Rodin, with a horrid smile; "this is a natural waxwork
exhibition, that is all. My calmness proves my innocence--and we had best
come at once to business. I have an appointment at two o'clock. So let us
carry down this casket."

He advanced towards the marble slab. Seized with indignation and horror,
Samuel threw himself before him, and, pressing with all his might on a
knob in the lid of the casket--a knob which yielded to the pressure--he
exclaimed: "Since your infernal soul is incapable of remorse, it may
perhaps be shaken by disappointed avarice."

"What does he say?" cried Rodin. "What is he doing?"

"Look!" said Samuel, in his turn assuming a