“Claret and sherry,” said the hostess, much astonished at the sudden taste of Rodin, “and—­”

The latter took a decanter at hazard, and poured out a glass of Madeira, which he drank off at a draught.  Just be fore he had felt a strange kind of shivering; to this had succeeded a sort of weakness.  He hoped the wine would revive him.

After wiping his mouth with the back of his dirty hand, he returned to the table, and said to Father d’Aigrigny:  “What did you tell me about M. Hardy?”

“That being ruined in fortune, he would be the more eager to obtain this immense inheritance,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, inwardly much offended at the imperious tone.

“M.  Hardy think of money?” said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders.  “He is indifferent to life, plunged in a stupor from which he only starts to burst into tears.  Then he speaks with mechanical kindness to those about him.  I have placed him in good hands.  He begins, however, to be sensible to the attentions shown him, for he is good, excellent, weak; and ii is to this excellence, Father d’Aigrigny, that you must appeal to finish the work in hand.”

“I?” said Father d’Aigrigny, much surprised.

“Yes; and then you will find that the result I have obtained is considerable, and—­”

Rodin paused, and, pressing his hand to his forehead, said to himself:  “It is strange!”

“What is the matter?” said the princess, with interest.

“Nothing, madame,” answered Rodin, with a shiver; “it is doubtless the wine I drank; I am not accustomed to it.  I feel a slight headache; but it will pass.”

“Your eyes are very bloodshot, my good father, said the princess.

“I have looked too closely into my web,” answered the Jesuit, with a sinister smile; “and I must look again, to make Father d’Aigrigny, who pretends to be blind, catch a glimpse of my other flies.  The two daughters of Marshal Simon, for instance, growing sadder and more dejected every day, at the icy barrier raised between them and their father; and the latter thinking himself one day dishonored if he does this, another if he does that; so that the hero of the Empire has become weaker and more irresolute than a child.  What more remains of this impious family?  Jacques Rennepont?  Ask Morok, to what a state of debasement intemperance has reduced him, and towards what an abyss he is rushing!—­There is my occurrence-sheet; you see to what are reduced all the members of this family, who, six weeks ago, had each elements of strength and union!  Behold these Renneponts, who, by the will of their heretical ancestor, were to unite their forces to combat and crush our Society!—­There was good reason to fear them; but what did I say?  That I would act upon their passions.  What have I done?  I have acted upon their passions.  At this hour they are vainly struggling in my web—­they are mine—­they are mine—­”

As he was speaking, Rodin’s countenance and voice had undergone a singular alteration; his complexion, generally so cadaverous, had become flushed, but unequally, and in patches; then, strange phenomenon! his eyes grew both more brilliant and more sunken, and his voice sharper and louder.  The change in the countenance of Rodin, of which he did not appear to be conscious, was so remarkable, that the other actors in this scene looked at him with a sort of terror.