“A woman.”

“What woman?”

“Some wandering creature, that Gabriel says he met in America, where she saved his life.”

“And how could this woman be there—­how could she know the existence of this codicil?”

“I think it was all arranged with a miserable Jew, the guardian of the house, whose family has had charge of the funds for three generations; he had no doubt some secret instructions, in case he suspected the detention of any of the heirs, for this Marius de Rennepont had foreseen that our Company would keep their eyes upon his race.”

“But can you not dispute the validity of this codicil?”

“What, go to law in these times—­litigate about a will—­incur the certainty of a thousand clamors, with no security for success?—­It is bad enough, that even this should get wind.  Alas! it is terrible.  So near the goal! after so much care and trouble.  An affair that had been followed up with so much perseverance during a century and a half!”

“Two hundred and twelve millions!” said the princess.  “The Order would have had no need to look for establishments in foreign countries; with such resources, it would have been able to impose itself upon France.”

“Yes,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, with bitterness; “by means of education, we might have possessed ourselves of the rising generation.  The power is altogether incalculable.”  Then, stamping with his foot, he resumed:  “I tell you, that it is enough to drive one mad with rage! an affair so wisely, ably, patiently conducted!”

“Is there no hope?”

“Only that Gabriel may not revoke his donation, in as far as concerns himself.  That alone would be a considerable sum—­not less than thirty millions.”

“It is enormous—­it is almost what you hoped,” said the princess; “then why despair?”

“Because it is evident that Gabriel will dispute this donation.  However legal it may be, he will find means to annul it, now that he is free, informed as to our designs, and surrounded by his adopted family.  I tell you, that all is lost.  There is no hope left.  I think it will be even prudent to write to Rome, to obtain permission to leave Paris for a while.  This town is odious to me!”

“Oh, yes!  I see that no hope is left—­since you, my friend, have decided almost to fly.”

Father d’Aigrigny was completely discouraged and broken down; this terrible blow had destroyed all life and energy within him.  He threw himself back in an arm-chair, quite overcome.  During the preceding dialogue, Rodin was standing humbly near the door, with his old hat in his hand.  Two or three times, at certain passages in the conversation between Father d’Aigrigny and the princess, the cadaverous face of the socius, whose wrath appeared to be concentrated, was slightly flushed, and his flappy eyelids were tinged with red, as if the blood mounted in consequence of an interior struggle; but, immediately after, his dull countenance resumed its pallid blue.