Father d'Aigrigny, who had been commissioned to attend M. Hardy in his
last moments.  The letter ran as follows:

"I send a despatch to inform your reverence of a fact which is, perhaps,
more singular than important.  After the funeral of M.  Francis Hardy,
the coffin, which contained his remains, had been provisionally deposited
in a vault beneath our chapel, until it could be removed to the cemetery
of the neighboring town.  This morning, when our people went down into
the vault, to make the necessary preparations for the removal of the
body--the coffin had disappeared.

"That is strange indeed," said Rodin with a start.  Then, he continued to
read:

"All search has hitherto been vain, to discover the authors of the
sacrilegious deed.  The chapel being, as you know, at a distance from the
house, they were able to effect an entry without disturbing us.  We
have found traces of a four-wheeled carriage on the damp ground in the
neighborhood; but, at some little distance from the chapel, these marks
are lost in the sand, and it has been impossible to follow them any
farther."

"Who can have carried away this body?" said Rodin, with a thoughtful air.
"Who could have any interest in doing so?"

He continued to read:

"Luckily, the certificate of death is quite correct.  I sent for a doctor
from Etampes, to prove the disease, and no question can be raised on that
point.  The donation is therefore good and valid in every respect, but I
think it best to inform your reverence of what has happened, that you may
take measures accordingly, etc., etc."

After a moment's reflection, Rodin said to himself: "D'Aigrigny is right
in his remark; it is more singular than important.  Still, it makes one
think.  We must have an eye to this affair."

Turning towards the servant, who had brought him the letter, Rodin gave
him the note he had just written to Ninny Moulin, and said to him: "Let
this letter be taken instantly to its address, and let the bearer wait
for an answer."

"Yes, father."

At the moment the servant left the room, a reverend father entered, and
said to Rodin, "Father Caboccini of Rome has just arrived, with a mission
from our general to your reverence."

At these words, Rodin's blood ran cold, but he maintained his immovable
calmness, and said simply: "Where is Father Caboccini?"

"In the next room, father."

"Beg him to walk in, and leave us," said the other.

A second after, Father Caboccini of Rome entered the room and was left
alone with Rodin.




CHAPTER LXII.

TO A SOCIUS, A SOCIUS AND A HALF.

The Reverend Father Caboccini, the Roman Jesuit who now came to visit
Rodin, was a short man of about thirty years of age, plump, in good
condition, and with an abdomen that swelled out his black cassock.  The
good little father was blind with one eye, but his remaining organ of
vision sparkled with vivacity.  His rosy countenance was gay, smiling,
joyous, splendidly crowned with thick chestnut hair, which curled like a
wax doll's.  His address was cordial to familiarity, and his expansive
and petulant manners harmonized well with his general appearance.  In a
second, Rodin had taken his measure of the Italian emissary; and as he
knew the practice of his Company, and the ways of Rome, he felt by no
means comfortable at sight of this jolly little father, with such affable
manners.  He would have less feared some tall, bony priest, with austere
and sepulchral countenance, for he knew that the Company loves to deceive
by the outward appearance of its agents; and if Rodin guessed rightly,
the cordial address of this personage would rather tend to show that he
was charged with some fatal mission.

Suspicious, attentive, with eye and mind on the watch, like an old wolf,
expecting an attack, Rodin advanced as usual, slowly and tortuously
towards the little man, so as to have time to examine him thoroughly, and
penetrate beneath his jovial outside.  But the Roman left him no space
for that purpose.  In his impetuous affection he threw himself right on
the neck of Rodin, pressed him in his arms with an effusion of
tenderness, and kissed him over and over again upon both cheeks, so
loudly and plentifully that the echo resounded through the apartment.  In
his life Rodin had never been so treated.  More and more uneasy at the
treachery which must needs lurk under such warm embraces, and irritated
by his own evil presentiments, the French Jesuit did, all he could to
extricate himself from the Roman's exaggerated tokens of tenderness.  But
the latter kept his hold; his arms, though short, were vigorous, and
Rodin was kissed over and over again, till the little one-eyed man was
quite out of breath.  It is hardly necessary to state that these embraces
were accompanied by the most friendly, affectionate, and fraternal
exclamations--all in tolerably good French, but with a strong Italian
accent, which we muss beg the reader to supply for himself, after we have
given a single specimen.  It will perhaps be remembered that, fully aware
of the danger he might possibly incur by his ambitious machinations, and
knowing from history that the use of poison had often been considered at
Rome as a state necessity, Rodin, on being suddenly attacked with the
cholera, had exclaimed, with a furious glance at Cardinal Malipieri, "I
am poisoned!"

The same apprehensions occurred involuntarily to the Jesuit's mind as he
tried, by useless efforts, to escape from the embraces of the Italian
emissary; and he could not help muttering to himself, "This one-eyed
fellow is a great deal too fond.  I hope there is no poison under his
Judas-kisses."  At last, little Father Caboccini, being quite out of
breath, was obliged to relinquish his hold on Rodin's neck, who,
readjusting his dirty collar, and his old cravat and waistcoat, somewhat
in disorder in consequence of this hurricane of caresses, said in a gruff
tone, "Your humble servant, father, but you need not kiss quite so hard."

Without making any answer to this reproach, the little father riveted his
one eye upon Rodin with an expression of enthusiasm, and exclaimed,
whilst he accompanied his words with petulant gestures, "At lazt I zee te
zuperb light of our zacred Company, and can zalute him from my heart--
vonse more, vonse more."

As the little father had already recovered his breath, and was about to
rush once again into Rodin's arms, the latter stepped back hastily, and
held out his arm to keep him off, saying, in allusion to the illogical
metaphor employed by Father Caboccini, "First of all, father, one does
not embrace a light--and then I am not a light--I am a humble and obscure
laborer in the Lord's vineyard."

The Roman replied with enthusiasm (we shall henceforth translate his
gibberish), "You are right, father, we cannot embrace a light, but we can
prostrate ourselves before it, and admire its dazzling brightness."

So saying, Caboccini was about to suit the action to the word, and to
prostrate himself before Rodin, had not the latter prevented this mode of
adulation by seizing the Roman by the arm and exclaiming, "This is mere
idolatry, father.  Pass over my qualities, and tell me what is the object
of your journey."

"The object, my dear father, fills me with joy and happiness.  I have
endeavored to show you my affection by my caresses, for my heart is
overflowing.  I have hardly been able to restrain myself during my
journey hither, for my heart rushed to meet you.  The object transports,
delights, enchants me--"

"But what enchants you?" cried Rodin, exasperated by these Italian
exaggerations.  "What is the object?"

"This rescript of our very reverend and excellent General will inform
you, my clear father."

Caboccini drew from his pocket-book a folded paper, with three seals,
which he kissed respectfully, and delivered to Rodin, who himself kissed
it in his turn, and opened it with visible anxiety.  While he read it the
countenance of the Jesuit remained impassible, but the pulsation of the
arteries on his temples announced his internal agitation.  Yet he put the
letter coolly into his pocket, and looking at the Roman, said to him, "Be
it as our excellent General has commanded!"

"Then, father," cried Caboccini, with a new effusion of tenderness and
admiration, "I shall be the shadow of your light, and, in fact, your
second self.  I shall have the happiness of being always with you, day
and night, and of acting as your socius, since, after having allowed you
to be without one for some time, according to your wish, and for the
interest of our blessed Company, our excellent General now thinks fit to
send me from Rome, to fill that post about your person--an unexpected, an
immense favor, which fills me with gratitude to our General, and with
love to you, my dear, my excellent father!"

"It is well played," thought Rodin; "but I am not so soft, and 'tis only
among the blind that your Cyclops are kings!"

The evening of the day in which this scene took place between the Jesuit
and his new socius, Ninny Moulin, after receiving in presence of
Caboccini the instructions of Rodin, went straight to Madame de la
Sainte-Colombe's.

This woman had made her fortune, at the time of the allies taking Paris,
by keeping one of those "pretty milliner's shops," whose "pink bonnets"
have run into a proverb not extinct in these days when bonnets are not
known.  Ninny Moulin had no better well to draw inspiration from when, as
now, he had to find out, as per Rodin's order, a girl of an age and
appearance which, singularly enough, were closely resembling those of
Mdlle. de Cardoville.

No doubt of Ninny Moulin's success in this mission, for the next morning
Rodin, whose countenance wore a triumphant expression, put with his own
hand a letter into the post.

This letter was addressed:

"To M. Agricola Baudoin,
"No.  2, Rue Brise-Miche,
"Paris."




CHAPTER LXIII.

FARINGHEA'S AFFECTION.

It will, perhaps, be remembered that Djalma, when he heard for the first
time that he was beloved by Adrienne, had, in the fulness of his joy,
spoken thus to Faringhea, whose treachery he had just discovered, "You
leagued with my enemies, and I had done you no harm.  You are wicked,
because you are no doubt unhappy.  I will strive to make you happy, so
that you may be good.  Would you have gold?--you shall have it.  Would
you have a friend?--though you are a slave, a king's son offers you his
friendship."

Faringhea had refused the gold, and appeared to accept the friendship of
the son of Kadja-sing.  Endowed with remarkable intelligence, and
extraordinary power of dissimulation the half-breed had easily persuaded
the prince of the sincerity of his repentance, and obtained credit for
his gratitude and attachment from so confiding and generous a character.
Besides, what motives could Djalma have to suspect the slave, now become
his friend?  Certain of the love of Mdlle. de Cardoville, with whom he
passed a portion of every day, her salutary influence would have guarded
him against any dangerous counsels or calumnies of the half-caste, a
faithful and secret instrument of Rodin, and attached by him to the
Company.  But Faringhea, whose tact was amazing, did not act so lightly;
he never spoke to the prince of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and waited
unobtrusively for the confidential communications into which Djalma was
sometimes hurried by his excessive joy.  A few days after the interview
last described between Adrienne and Djalma, and on the morrow of the day
when Rodin, certain of the success of Ninny Moulin's mission to Sainte-
Colombe, had himself put a letter in the post to the address of Agricola
Baudoin, the half-caste, who for some time had appeared oppressed with a
violent grief, seemed to get so much worse, that the prince, struck with
the desponding air of the man, asked him kindly and repeatedly the cause
of his sorrow.  But Faringhea, while he gratefully thanked the prince for
the interest he took in him, maintained the most absolute silence and
reserve on the subject of his grief.

These preliminaries will enable the reader to understand the following
scene, which took place about noon in the house in the Rue de Clichy
occupied by the Hindoo.  Contrary to his habit, Djalma had not passed
that morning with Adrienne.  He had been informed the evening before, by
the young lady, that she must ask of him the sacrifice of this whole day,
to take the necessary measures to make their marriage sacred and
acceptable in the eyes of the world, and yet free from the restrictions
which she and Djalma disapproved. As for the means to be employed by
Mdlle. de Cardoville to attain this end, and the name of the pure and
honorable person who was to consecrate their union, these were secrets
which, not belonging exclusively to the young lady, could not yet be
communicated to Djalma.  To the Indian, so long accustomed to devote
every instant to Adrienne, this day seemed interminable.  By turns a prey
to the most burning agitation, and to a kind of stupor, in which he
plunged himself to escape from the thoughts that caused his tortures,
Djalma lay stretched upon a divan, with his face buried in his hands, as
if to shut out the view of a too enchanting vision.  Suddenly, without
knocking at the door, as usual, Faringhea entered the prince's apartment.

At the noise the half-caste made in entering Djalma started, raised his
head, and looked round him with surprise; but, on seeing the pale
agitated countenance of the slave, he rose hastily, and advancing towards
him, exclaimed, "What is the matter, Faringhea!"

After a moment's silence, and as if struggling with a painful feeling of
hesitation, Faringhea threw himself at the feet of Djalma, and murmured
in a weak, despairing, almost supplicating voice: "I am very miserable.
Pity me, my good lord!"

The tone was so touching, the grief under which the half-breed suffered
seemed to give to his features, generally fixed and hard as bronze, such
a heart-rending expression, that Djalma was deeply affected, and, bending
to raise him from the ground, said to him, in a kindly voice: "Speak to
me!  Confidence appeases the torments of the heart.  Trust me, friend--
for my angel herself said to me, that happy love cannot bear to see tears
about him."

"But unhappy love, miserable love, betrayed love--weeps tears of blood,"
replied Faringhea, with painful dejection.

"Of what love dost thou speak?" asked Djalma, in surprise.

"I speak of my love," answered the half-caste, with a gloomy air.

"Of your love?" said Djalma, more and more astonished; not that the half-
caste, still young, and with a countenance of sombre beauty, appeared to
him incapable of inspiring or feeling the tender passion, but that, until
now, he had never imagined him capable of conceiving so deep a sorrow.

"My lord," resumed the half-caste, "you told me, that misfortune had made
me wicked, and that happiness would make me good.  In those words, I saw
a presentiment, and a noble love entered my heart, at the moment when
hatred and treachery departed from it.  I, the half-savage, found a
woman, beautiful and young, to respond to my passion.  At least I thought

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