tion, "This poison is
horrible.--But how--" Then, with a terrific cry of rage, as if a sudden
idea had struck him, he exclaimed: "Ha! Faringhea--this morning--the holy
water--he knows such subtle poisons. Yes--it is he--he had an interview
with Malipieri. The demon!--Oh! it was well played. The Borgias are still
the same. Oh! it is all over. I die. They will regret me, the fools!--Oh!
hell! hell! The Church knows not its loss--but I burn--help!"

They came to his assistance. Quick steps were heard upon the stairs, and
Dr. Baleinier, followed by the Princess de Saint-Dizier, appeared at the
entrance of the Hall of Mourning. The princess had learned vaguely that
morning the death of Father d'Aigrigny, and had come to question Rodin
upon the subject. When this woman, entering the room, suddenly saw the
frightful spectacle that offered itself to her view--when she saw Rodin
writhing in horrible agony, and, further on, by the light of the
sepulchral lamp, those six corpses--and, amongst them, her own niece, and
the two orphans whom she had sent to meet their death--she stood
petrified with horror, and her reason was unable to withstand the shock.
She looked slowly round her, and then raised her arms on high, and burst
into a wild fit of laughter. She had gone mad. Whilst Dr. Baleinier
supported the head of Rodin, who expired in his arms, Faringhea appeared
at the door; remaining in the shade, he cast a ferocious glance at the
corpse of the Jesuit. "He would have made himself the chief of the
Company of Jesus, to destroy it," said he; "with me, the Company of Jesus
stands in the place of Bowanee. I have obeyed the cardinal!"

[44] Should this appear incredible, we would remind the reader of the
marvellous discoveries in the art of embalming--particularly Dr.
Gannal's.

EPILOGUE.

CHAPTER I.

FOUR YEARS AFTER.

Four years had elapsed, since the events we have just related, when
Gabriel de Rennepont wrote the following letter to Abbe Joseph
Charpentier, curate of the Parish of Saint-Aubin, a hamlet of Sologne:

"Springwater Farm,
"June 2d, 1836.

"Intending to write to you yesterday, my bear Joseph, I seated myself at
the little old black table, that you will remember well. My window looks,
you know, upon the farmyard, and I can see all that takes place there.
These are grave preliminaries, my friend, but I am coming to the point. I
had just taken my seat at the table, when, looking from the window, this