“See what it is, and answer it.  I have no head for business.”

“The letter is confidential,” said Rodin, presenting it to his master.  “I dare not open it, as you may see by the mark on the cover.”

At sight of this mark, the countenance of Rodin’s master assumed an indefinable expression of respect and fear.  With a trembling hand he broke the seal.  The note contained only the following words:  “Leave all business, and without losing a minute, set out and come.  M. Duplessis will replace you.  He has orders.”

“Great God!” cried this man in despair.  “Set out before I have seen my mother!  It is frightful, impossible—­it would perhaps kill her—­yes, it would be matricide!”

Whilst he uttered these words, his eyes rested on the huge globe, marked with red crosses.  A sudden revolution seemed to take place within him; he appeared to repent of the violence of his regrets; his face, though still sad, became once more calm and grave.  He handed the fatal letter to his secretary, and said to him, whilst he stifled a sigh:  “To be classed under its proper number.”

Rodin took the letter, wrote a number upon it, and placed it in a particular box.  After a moment’s silence, his master resumed:  “You will take orders from M. Duplessis, and work with him.  You will deliver to him the note on the affair of the medals; he knows to whom to address it.  You will write to Batavia, Leipsic, and Charlestown, in the sense agreed.  Prevent, at any price, the daughters of General Simon from quitting Leipsic; hasten the arrival of Gabriel in Paris; and should Prince Djalma come to Batavia, tell M. Joshua Van Dael, that we count on his zeal and obedience to keep him there.”

And this man, who, while his dying mother called to him in vain, could thus preserve his presence of mind, entered his own apartments; whilst Rodin busied himself with the answers he had been ordered to write, and transcribed them in cipher.

In about three quarters of an hour, the bells of the post-horses were heard jingling without.  The old servant again entered, after discreetly knocking at the door, and said: 

“The carriage is ready.”

Rodin nodded, and the servant withdrew.  The secretary, in his turn, went to knock at the door of the inner room.  His master appeared, still grave and cold, but fearfully pale, and holding a letter in his hand.

“This for my mother,” said he to Rodin; “you will send a courier on the instant.”

“On the instant,” replied the secretary.

“Let the three letters for Leipsic, Batavia and Charlestown, leave to-day by the ordinary channel.  They are of the last importance.  You know it.”

Those were his last words.  Executing merciless orders with a merciless obedience, he departed without even attempting to see his mother.  His secretary accompanied him respectfully to his carriage.

“What road, sir?” asked the postilion, turning round on his saddle.