the sacred edifice, Faringhea sank upon the stones, half kneeling, half crouching, with his face buried in his hands.  As the coach drew near the quarter of the Marais, in which was situated the house of Marius de Rennepont, a feverish agitation, and the devouring impatience of triumph, were visible on the countenance of Rodin.  Two or three times he opened his pocketbook, and read and arranged the different certificates of death of the various members of the Rennepont family; and from time to time he thrust his head anxiously from the coach-window, as if he had wished to hasten the slow progress of the vehicle.

The good little father, his socius, did not take his eye off Rodin, and his look had a strange and crafty expression.  At last the coach entered the Rue Saint-Francois, and stopped before the iron-studded door of the old house, which had been closed for a century and a half.  Rodin sprang from the coach with the agility of a young man, and knocked violently at the door, whilst Father Caboccini, less light of foot, descended more prudently to the ground.  No answer was returned to the loud knocking of Rodin.  Trembling with anxiety, he knocked again.  This time, as he listened attentively, he heard slow steps approaching.  They stopped at some distance from the door, which was not yet opened.

“It is keeping one upon red-hot coals,” said Rodin, for he felt as if there was a burning fire in his chest.  He again shook the door violently, and began to gnaw his nails according to his custom.

Suddenly the door opened, and Samuel, the Jew guardian, appeared beneath the porch.  The countenance of the old man expressed bitter grief.  Upon his venerable cheeks were the traces of recent tears, which he strove to dry with his trembling hands, as he opened the door to Rodin.

“Who are you, gentlemen?” said Samuel.

“I am the bearer of a power of attorney from the Abbe Gabriel, the only living representative of the Rennepont family,” answered Rodin, hastily.  “This gentleman is my secretary,” added he, pointing to Father Caboccini, who bowed.

After looking attentively at Rodin, Samuel resumed:  “I recognize you, sir.  Please to follow me.”  And the old guardian advanced towards the house in the garden, making a sign to the two reverend fathers to follow.

“That confounded old man kept me so long at the door,” said Rodin to his socius, “that I think I have caught a cold in consequence.  My lips and throat are dried up, like parchment baked at the fire.”

“Will you not take something, my dear, good father?  Suppose you were to ask this man for a glass of water,” cried the little one-eyed priest, with tender solicitude.

“No, no,” answered Rodin; “it is nothing.  I am devoured by impatience.  That is all.”

Pale and desolate, Bathsheba, the wife of Samuel, was standing at the door of the apartment she occupied with her husband, in the building next the street.  As the Jew passed before her, he said, in Hebrew:  “The curtains of the Hall of Mourning?”