A woman appeared upon the threshold.

At sight of her, Gabriel uttered a loud cry, and remained as if thunderstruck.  Samuel and Bathsheba fell on their knees together, and raised their clasped hands.  The Jew and Jewess felt inexplicable hopes reviving within them.

All the other actors in this scene appeared struck with stupor.  Rodin—­Rodin himself—­recoiled two steps, and replaced the casket on the table with a trembling hand.  Though the incident might appear natural enough—­a woman appearing on the threshold of a door, which she had just thrown open—­there was a pause of deep and solemn silence.  Every bosom seemed oppressed, and as if struggling for breath.  All experienced, at sight of this woman, surprise mingled with fear, and indefinable anxiety—­for this woman was the living original of the portrait, which had been placed in the room a hundred and fifty years ago.  The same head-dress, the same flowing robe, the same countenance, so full of poignant and resigned grief!  She advanced slowly, and without appearing to perceive the deep impression she had caused.  She approached one of the pieces of furniture, inlaid with brass, touched a spring concealed in the moulding of gilded bronze, so that an upper drawer flew open, and taking from it a sealed parchment envelope, she walked up to the table, and placed this packet before the notary, who, hitherto silent and motionless, received it mechanically from her.

Then, casting upon Gabriel, who seemed fascinated by her presence, a long, mild, melancholy look, this woman directed her steps towards the hall, the door of which had remained open.  As she passed near Samuel and Bathsheba, who were still kneeling, she stopped an instant, bowed her fair head towards them, and looked at them with tender solicitude.  Then, giving them her hands to kiss, she glided away as slowly as she had entered—­throwing a last glance upon Gabriel.  The departure of this woman seemed to break the spell under which all present had remained for the last few minutes.  Gabriel was the first to speak, exclaiming, in an agitated voice.  “It is she—­again—­here—­in this house!”

“Who, brother?” said Agricola, uneasy at the pale and almost wild looks of the missionary; for the smith had not yet remarked the strange resemblance of the woman to the portrait, though he shared in the general feeling of amazement, without being able to explain it to himself.  Dagobert and Faringhea were in a similar state of mind.

“Who is this woman?” resumed Agricola, as he took the hand of Gabriel, which felt damp and icy cold.

“Look!” said the young priest.  “Those portraits have been there for more than a century and a half.”

He pointed to the paintings before which he was now seated, and Agricola, Dagobert, and Faringhea raised their eyes to either side of the fireplace.  Three exclamations were now heard at once.

“It is she—­it is the same woman!” cried the smith, in amazement, “and her portrait has been here for a hundred and fifty years!”