“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