In spite of his apparent resignation, the Jesuit’s voice was neatly agitated.  He seemed to feel a hot iron upon his cheek, for never before in his life, whether as a soldier or a priest, had he suffered such an insult.  He had thrown himself upon his knees, partly from religious mummery, and partly to avoid the gaze of the marshal, fearing that, were he to meet his eye, he should not be able to answer for himself, but give way to his impetuous feelings.  On seeing the Jesuit kneel down, and on hearing his hypocritical invocation, the marshal, whose sword was in his hand, shook with indignation.

“Stand up, scoundrel!” he said, “stand up, wretch!” And he spurned the Jesuit with his boot.

At this new insult, Father d’Aigrigny leaped up, as if he had been moved by steel springs.  It was too much; he could bear no more.  Blinded with rage, he rushed to the able, caught up the other sword, and exclaimed, grinding his teeth together:  “Ah! you will have blood.  Well then! it shall be yours—­if possible!”

And the Jesuit, still in all the vigor of manhood, his face purple, his large gray eyes sparkling with hate, fell upon his guard with the ease and skill of a finished swordsman.

“At last!” cried the marshal, as their blades were about to cross.

But once more reflection came to damp the fire of the Jesuit.  He remembered how this hazardous duel would gratify the wishes of Rodin, whose fate was in his hands, and whom he hated perhaps even more than the marshal.  Therefore, in spite of the fury which possessed him, in spite of his secret hope to conquer in this combat, so strong and healthy did he feel himself, and so fatal had been the effects of grief on the constitution of Marshal Simon, he succeeded in mastering his rage, and, to the amazement of the marshal, dropped the point of his sword, exclaiming:  “I am a minister of the Lord, and must not shed blood.  Forgive ne, heaven! and, oh! forgive my brother also.”

Then placing the blade beneath his heel, he drew the hilt suddenly towards him, and broke the weapon into two pieces.  The duel was no longer possible.  Father d’Aigrigny had put it out of his own power to yield to a new burst of violence, of which he saw the imminent danger.  Marshal Simon remained for an instant mute and motionless with surprise and indignation, for he also saw that the duel was now impossible.  But, suddenly, imitating the Jesuit, the marshal placed his blade also under his heel, broke it in half, and picking up the pointed end, about eighteen inches in length tore off his black silk cravat, rolled it round the broken part so as to form a handle, and said to Father d’Aigrigny:  “Then we will fight with daggers.”

Struck with this mixture of coolness and ferocity, the Jesuit exclaimed:  “Is this then a demon of hell?”

“No; it is a father, whose children have been murdered,” said the marshal, in a hollow voice, whilst he fitted the blade to his hand, and a tear stood in the eye, that instantly after became fierce and ardent.