Here the pale lips were contracted by one of those frightful smiles, which gave to Rodin’s countenance so diabolical an expression.

After a pause, he resumed:  “The funeral of the freethinker, the philanthropist, the workman’s friend, took place yesterday at St. Herem.  Francis Hardy went off in a fit of ecstatic delirium.  I had his donation, it is true; but this is more certain.  Everything may be disputed in this world; the dead dispute nothing.”

Rodin remained in thought for some moments; then he added, in a grave tone:  “There remain this red-haired wench and her mulatto.  This is the twenty-seventh of May; the first of June approaches, and these turtle doves still seem invulnerable.  The princess thought she had hit upon a good plan, and I should have thought so too.  It was a good idea to mention the discovery of Agricola Baudoin in the madcap’s room, for it made the Indian tiger roar with savage jealousy.  Yes:  but then the dove began to coo, and hold out her pretty beak, and the foolish tiger sheathed his claws, and rolled on the ground before her.  It’s a pity, for there was some sense in the scheme.”

The walk of Rodin became more and more agitated.  “Nothing is more extraordinary,” continued he, “than the generative succession of ideas.  In comparing this red-haired jade to a dove (colombe), I could not help thinking of that infamous old woman, Sainte-Colombe, whom that big rascal Jacques Dumoulin pays his court to, and whom the Abbe Corbinet will finish, I hope, by turning to good account.  I have often remarked, that, as a poet may find an excellent rhyme by mere chance, so the germ of the best ideas is sometimes found in a word, or in some absurd resemblance like the present.  That abominable hag, Sainte-Colombo, and the pretty Adrienne de Cardoville, go as well together, as a ring would suit a cat, or a necklace a fish.  Well, there is nothing in it.”

Hardly had Rodin pronounced these words, than he started suddenly, and his face shone with a fatal joy.  Then it assumed an expression of meditative astonishment, as happens when chance reveals some unexpected discovery to the surprised and charmed inquirer after knowledge.

Soon, with raised head and sparkling eye, his hollow cheeks swelling with joy and pride, Rodin folded his arms in triumph on his breast, and exclaimed:  “Oh! how admirable and marvellous are these mysterious evolutions of the mind; how incomprehensible is the chain of human thought, which, starting from an absurd jingle of words, arrives at a splendid or luminous idea!  Is it weakness? or is it strength?  Strange—­very strange!  I compare the red-haired girl to a dove—­a colombe.  That makes me think of the hag, who traded in the bodies and souls of so many creatures.  Vulgar proverbs occur to me, about a ring and a cat, a fish and a necklace—­and suddenly, at the word necklace, a new light dawns upon me.  Yes:  that one word necklace shall be to me a golden key, to open the portals of my brain, so long foolishly closed.”