“’Distantly related (without knowing it) to Jacques Rennepont, alias Sleepinbuff, and Gabriel Rennepont, missionary priest.  She will soon be twenty-one years of age, the most attractive person in the world—­extraordinary beauty, though red-haired—­a mind remarkable for its originality—­immense fortune—­all the animal instincts.  The incredible independence of her character makes one tremble for the future fate of this young person.  Happily, her appointed guardian, Baron Tripeaud (a baron of 1829 creation, formerly agent to the late Count of Rennepont, Duke of Cardoville), is quite in the interest, and almost in the dependence, of the young lady’s aunt.  We count, with reason, upon this worthy and respectable relative, and on the Baron Tripeaud, to oppose and repress the singular, unheard-of designs which this young person, as resolute as independent, does not fear to avow—­and which, unfortunately, cannot be turned to account in the interest of the affair in question—­for—­”

Rodin was here interrupted by two discreet taps at the door.  The secretary rose, went to see who knocked, remained a moment without, and then returned with two letters in his hand, saying:  “The princess has profited by the departure of a courier to—­”

“Give me the letter!” cried his master, without leaving him time to finish.  “At length,” he added, “I shall have news of my mother—­”

He had scarcely read the first few lines of the letter, when he grew deadly pale, and his features took an expression of painful astonishment and poignant grief.  “My mother!” he cried, “oh, heavens! my mother!”

“What misfortune has happened!” asked Rodin, with a look of alarm, as he rose at the exclamation of his master.

“The symptoms of improvement were fallacious,” replied the other, dejectedly; “she has now relapsed into a nearly hopeless state.  And yet the doctor thinks my presence might save her, for she calls for me without ceasing.  She wishes to see me for the last time, that she may die in peace.  Oh, that wish is sacred!  Not to grant it would be matricide.  If I can but arrive in time!  Travelling day and night, it will take nearly two days.”

“Alas! what a misfortune!” said Rodin, wringing his hands, and raising his eyes to heaven.

His master rang the bell violently, and said to the old servant that opened the door:  “Just put what is indispensable into the portmanteau of my travelling-carriage.  Let the porter take a cab, and go for post horses instantly.  Within an hour, I must be on the road.  Mother! mother!” cried he, as the servant departed in haste.  “Not to see her again—­oh, it would be frightful!” And sinking upon a chair, overwhelmed with sorrow, he covered his face with his hands.

This great grief was sincere—­he loved tenderly his mother that divine sentiment had accompanied him, unalterable and pure, through all the phases of a too often guilty life.

After a few minutes, Rodin ventured to say to his master, as he showed him the second letter:  “This, also, has just been brought from M. Duplessis.  It is very important—­very pressing—­”