with so calm and serene a daring, that the reverend father and the
princess were quite confounded by it.  They felt themselves overawed by
this little old man, so sordid and so ugly.  Father d'Aigrigny knew too
well the customs of the Company, to believe his humble secretary capable
of assuming so suddenly these airs of transcendent superiority without a
motive, or rather, without a positive right.  Late, too late, the
reverend father perceived, that this subordinate agent might be partly a
spy, partly an experienced assistant, who, according to the constitutions
of the Order, had the power and mission to depose and provisionally
replace, in certain urgent cases, the incapable person over whom he was
stationed as a guard.  The reverend father was not deceived.  From the
general to the provincials, and to the rectors of the colleges, all the
superior members of the Order have stationed near them, often without
their knowledge, and in apparently the lowest capacities, men able to
assume their functions at any given moment, and who, with this view,
constantly keep up a direct correspondence with Rome.

From the moment Rodin had assumed this position, the manners of Father
d'Aigrigny, generally so haughty, underwent a change.  Though it cost him
a good deal, he said with hesitation, mingled with deference: "You have,
no doubt, the right to command me--who hitherto have commanded."  Rodin,
without answering, drew from his well-rubbed and greasy pocket-book a
slip of paper, stamped upon both sides, on which were written several
lines in Latin.  When he had read it, Father d'Aigrigny pressed this
paper respectfully, even religiously, to his lips: then returned it to
Rodin, with a low bow.  When he again raised his head, he was purple with
shame and vexation.  Notwithstanding his habits of passive obedience and
immutable respect for the will of the Order, he felt a bitter and violent
rage at seeing himself thus abruptly deposed from power.  That was not
all.  Though, for a long time past, all relations in gallantry had ceased
between him and Mme. de Saint-Dizier, the latter was not the less a
woman; and for him to suffer this humiliation in presence of a woman was,
undoubtedly, cruel, as, notwithstanding his entrance into the Order, he
had not wholly laid aside the character of man of the world.  Moreover,
the princess, instead of appearing hurt and offended by this sudden
transformation of the superior into a subaltern, and of the subaltern
into a superior, looked at Rodin with a sort of curiosity mingled with
interest.  As a woman--as a woman, intensely ambitious, seeking to
connect herself with every powerful influence--the princess loved this
strange species of contrast.  She found it curious and interesting to see
this man, almost in rags, mean in appearance, and ignobly ugly, and but
lately the most humble of subordinates look down from the height of his
superior intelligence upon the nobleman by birth, distinguished for the
elegance of his manners, and just before so considerable a personage in
the Society.  From that moment, as the more important personage of the
two, Rodin completely took the place of Father d'Aigrigny in the
princess's mind.  The first pang of humiliation over, the reverend
father, though his pride bled inwardly, applied all his knowledge of the
world to behave with redoubled courtesy towards Rodin, who had become his
superior by this abrupt change of fortune.  But the ex-socius, incapable
of appreciating, or rather of acknowledging, such delicate shades of
manner, established himself at once, firmly, imperiously, brutally, in
his new position, not from any reaction of offended pride, but from a
consciousness of what he was really worth.  A long acquaintance with
Father d'Aigrigny had revealed to him the inferiority of the latter.

"You threw away your pen," said Father d'Aigrigny to Rodin with extreme
deference, "while I was dictating a note for Rome.  Will you do me the
favor to tell me how I have acted wrong?"

"Directly," replied Rodin, in his sharp, cutting voice.  "For a long time
this affair appeared to me above your strength; but I abstained from
interfering.  And yet what mistakes! what poverty of invention; what
coarseness in the means employed to bring it to bear!"

"I can hardly understand your reproaches," answered Father d'Aigrigny,
mildly, though a secret bitterness made its way through his apparent
submission.  "Was not the success certain, had it not been for this
codicil?  Did you not yourself assist in the measures that you now
blame?"

"You commanded, then, and it was my duty to obey.  Besides, you were just
on the point of succeeding--not because of the means you had taken--but
in spite of those means, with all their awkward and revolting brutality."

"Sir--you are severe," said Father d'Aigrigny.

"I am just.  One has to be prodigiously clever, truly, to shut up any one
in a room, and then lock the door!  And yet, what else have you done?
The daughters of General Simon?--imprisoned at Leipsic, shut up in a
convent at Paris!  Adrienne de Cardoville?--placed in confinement.
Sleepinbuff--put in prison.  Djalma?--quieted by a narcotic.  One only
ingenious method, and a thousand times safer, because it acted morally,
not materially, was employed to remove M. Hardy.  As for your other
proceedings--they were all bad, uncertain, dangerous.  Why?  Because they
were violent, and violence provokes violence.  Then it is no longer a
struggle of keen, skillful, persevering men, seeing through the darkness
in which they walk, but a match of fisticuffs in broad day.  Though we
should be always in action, we should always shrink from view; and yet
you could find no better plan than to draw universal attention to us by
proceedings at once open and deplorably notorious.  To make them more
secret, you call in the guard, the commissary of police, the jailers, for
your accomplices.  It is pitiable, sir; nothing but the most brilliant
success could cover such wretched folly; and this success has been
wanting."

"Sir," said Father d'Aigrigny, deeply hurt, for the Princess de Saint-
Dizier, unable to conceal the sort of admiration caused in her by the
plain, decisive words of Rodin, looked at her old lover, with an air that
seemed to say, "He is right;"--"sir, you are more than severe in your
judgment; and, notwithstanding the deference I owe to you, I must
observe, that I am not accustomed--"

"There are many other things to which you are not accustomed," said
Rodin, harshly interrupting the reverend father; "but you will accustom
yourself to them.  You have hitherto had a false idea of your own value.
There is the old leaven of the soldier and the worlding fermenting within
you, which deprives your reason of the coolness, lucidity, and
penetration that it ought to possess.  You have been a fine military
officer, brisk and gay, foremost in wars and festivals, with pleasures
and women.  These things have half worn you out.  You will never be
anything but a subaltern; you have been thoroughly tested.  You will
always want that vigor and concentration of mind which governs men and
events.  That vigor and concentration of mind I have--and do you know
why?  It is because, solely devoted to the service of the Company, I have
always been ugly, dirty, unloved, unloving--I have all my manhood about
me!"

In pronouncing these words, full of cynical pride, Rodin was truly
fearful.  The princess de Saint-Dizier thought him almost handsome by his
energy and audacity.

Father d'Aigrigny, feeling himself overawed, invincibly and inexorably,
by this diabolical being, made a last effort to resist and exclaimed,
"Oh! sir, these boastings are no proofs of valor and power.  We must see
you at work."

"Yes," replied Rodin, coldly; "do you know at what work?"  Rodin was fond
of this interrogative mode of expression.  "Why, at the work that you so
basely abandon."

"What!" cried the Princess de Saint-Dizier; for Father d'Aigrigny,
stupefied at Rodin's audacity, was unable to utter a word.

"I say," resumed Rodin, slowly, "that I undertake to bring to a good
issue this affair of the Rennepont inheritance, which appears to you so
desperate."

"You?" cried Father d'Aigrigny.  "You?"

"I."

"But they have unmasked our maneuvers."

"So much the better; we shall be obliged to invent others."

"But they; will suspect us in everything."

"So much the better; the success that is difficult is the most certain."

"What! do you hope to make Gabriel consent not to revoke his donation,
which is perhaps illegal?"

"I mean to bring in to the coffers of the Company the whole of the two
hundred and twelve millions, of which they wish to cheat us.  Is that
clear?"

"It is clear--but impossible."

"And I tell you that it is, and must be possible.  Do you not understand,
short-sighted as you are!" cried Rodin, animated to such a degree that
his cadaverous face became slightly flushed; "do you not understand that
it is no longer in our choice to hesitate?  Either these two hundred and
twelve millions must be ours--and then the re-establishment of our
sovereign influence in France is sure--for, in these venal times, with
such a sum at command, you may bribe or overthrow a government, or light
up the flame of civil war, and restore legitimacy, which is our natural
ally, and, owing all to us, would give us all in return--"

"That is clear," cried the princess, clasping her hands in admiration.

"If, on the contrary," resumed Rodin, "these two hundred and twelve
millions fall into the hands of the family of the Renneponts, it will be
our ruin and our destruction.  We shall create a stock of bitter and
implacable enemies.  Have you not heard the execrable designs of that
Rennepont, with regard to the association he recommends, and which, by an
accursed fatality, his race are just in a condition to realize?  Think of
the forces that would rally round these millions.  There would be Marshal
Simon, acting in the name of his daughters--that is, the man of the
people become a duke, without being the vainer for it, which secures his
influence with the mob, because military spirit and Bonapartism still
represent, in the eyes of the French populace, the traditions of national
honor and glory.  There would be Francis Hardy, the liberal, independent,
enlightened citizen, the type of the great manufacturer, the friend of
progress, the benefactor of his workmen.  There would be Gabriel--the
good priest, as they say!--the apostle of the primitive gospel, the
representative of the democracy of the church, of the poor country curate
as opposed to the rich bishop, the tiller of the vine as opposed to him
who sits in the shade of it; the propagator of all the ideas of
fraternity, emancipation, progress--to use their own jargon--and that,
not in the name of revolutionary and incendiary politics, but in the name
of a religion of charity, love, and peace--to speak as they speak.
There, too, would be Adrienne de Cardoville, the type of elegance, grace,
and beauty, the priestess of the senses, which she deifies by refining
and cultivating them.  I need not tell you of her wit and audacity; you
know them but too well.  No one could be more dangerous to us than this
creature, a patrician in blood, a plebeian in heart, a poet in
imagination.  Then, too, there would be Prince Djalma, chivalrous, bold,
ready for adventure, knowing nothing of civilized life, implacable in his
hate as in his affection, a terrible instrument for whoever can make use
of him.  In this detestable family, even such a wretch as Sleepinbuff,
who in himself is of no value, raised and purified by the contact of
these generous and far from narrow natures (as they call them), might
represent the working class, and take a large share in the influence of
that association.  Now do you not think that if all these people, already
exasperated against us, because (as they say) we have wished to rob them,
should follow the detestable counsels of this Rennepont--should unite
their forces around this immense fortune, which would strengthen them a
hundred-fold--do you not think that, if they declare a deadly war against
us, they will be the most dangerous enemies that we have ever had?  I
tell you that the Company has never been in such serious peril; yes, it
is now a question of life and death.  We must no longer defend ourselves,
but lead the attack, so as to annihilate this accursed race of Rennepont,
and obtain possession of these millions."

At this picture, drawn by Rodin with a feverish animation, which had only
the more influence from its unexpectedness, the princess and Father
d'Aigrigny looked at each other in confusion.

"I confess," said the reverend father to Rodin, "I had not considered all
the dangerous consequences of this association, recommended by M. de
Rennepont.  I believe that the heir, from the characters we know them to
be possessed of, would wish to realize this Utopia.  The peril is great
and pressing; what is to be done?"

"What, sir?  You have to act upon ignorant, heroic, enthusiastic natures
like Djalma's--sensual and eccentric characters like Adrienne de
Cardoville's--simple and ingenuous minds like Rose and Blanche Simon's--
honest and frank dispositions like Francis Hardy's--angelic and pure
souls like Gabriel's--brutal and stupid instincts like Jacques--and can
you ask, "What is to be done?"

"In truth, I do not understand you," said Father d'Aigrigny.

"I believe it.  Your past conduct shows as much," replied Rodin,
contemptuously.  "You have had recourse to the lowest and most mechanical
contrivances, instead of acting upon the noble and generous passions,
which, once united, would constitute so formidable a bond; but which, now
divided and isolated, are open to every surprise, every seduction, every
attack!  Do you, at length understand me?  Not yet?" added Rodin,
shrugging his shoulders.  "Answer me--do people die of despair?"

"Yes."

"May not the gratitude of successful love reach the last limits of insane
generosity?"

"Yes."

"May there not be such horrible deceptions, that suicide is the only
refuge from frightful realities?"

"Yes."

"May not the excess of sensuality lead to the grave by a slow and
voluptuous agony?"

"Yes."

"Are there not in life such terrible circumstances that the most worldly,
the firmest, the most impious characters, throw themselves blindly,
overwhelmed with despair, into the arms of religion, and abandon all
earthly greatness for sackcloth, and prayers, and solitude?"

"Yes."

"Are there not a thousand occasions in which the reaction of the passions
works the most extraordinary changes, and brings about the most tragic
catastrophes in the life of man and woman?"

"No doubt."

"Well, then! why ask me, `What is to be done?'  What would you say, for
example, if before three months are over, the most dangerous members of
this family of the Renneponts should come to implore, upon their knees,
admission to that very Society which they now hold in horror, and from
which Gabriel has just separated?"

"Such a conversion is impossible," cried Father d'Aigrigny.

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