“Sir,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, coldly, “you forget that my profession forbids me to fight.  Once I accepted your challenge—­but my position is changed since then.”

“Ah!” said the marshal, with a bitter smile; “you refuse to fight because you are a priest?”

“Yes, sir—­because I am a priest.”

“So that, because he is a priest, a wretch like you may commit any crime, any baseness, under shelter of his black gown?”

“I do not understand a word of your accusations.  In any case, the law is open,” said Father d’Aigrigny, biting his pale lips, for he felt deeply the insult offered by the marshal; “if you have anything to complain of, appeal to that law, before which all are equal.”

Marshal Simon shrugged his shoulders in angry disdain.  “Your crimes escape the law—­and, could it even reach you, that would not satisfy my vengeance, after all the evil you have done me, after all you have taken from me,” said the marshal; and, at the memory of his children, his voice slightly trembled; but he soon proceeded, with terrible calmness:  “You must feel that I now only live for vengeance.  And I must have such revenge as is worth the seeking—­I must have your coward’s heart palpitating on the point of my sword.  Our last duel was play; this will be earnest—­oh! you shall see.”

The marshal walked up to the table, where he had laid the two swords.  Father d’Aigrigny needed all his resolution to restrain himself.  The implacable hate which he had always felt for Marshal Simon, added to these insults, filled him with savage ardor.  Yet he answered, in a tone that was still calm:  “For the last time, sir, I repeat to you, that my profession forbids me to fight.”

“Then you refuse?” said the marshal, turning abruptly towards him.

“I refuse.”

“Positively?”

“Positively.  Nothing on earth should force me to it.”

“Nothing.”

“No, sir; nothing.”

“We shall see,” said the marshal, as his hand fell with its full force on the cheek of Father d’Aigrigny.

The Jesuit uttered a cry of fury; all his blood rushed to his face, so roughly handled; the courage of the man (for he was brave), his ancient military ardor, carried him away; his eyes sparkled, and, with teeth firmly set, and clenched fists, he advanced towards the marshal, exclaiming:  “The swords! the swords!”

But suddenly, remembering the appearance of Rodin, and the interest which the latter had in bringing about this encounter, he determined to avoid the diabolical snare laid by his former socius, and so gathered sufficient resolution to restrain his terrible resentment.

To his passing fury succeeded a calm, full of contrition; and, wishing to play his part out to the end, he knelt down, and bowing his head and beating his bosom, repeated:  “Forgive me, Lord, for yielding to a movement of rage! and, above all, forgive him who has injured me!”