The Jesuit drew back in horror.  For some seconds, he trembled convulsively.  But, his first amazement over, reflection returned, and, with reflection came that invincible energy, that infernal obstinacy of character, that gave him so much power.  Steadying himself on his legs, drawing his hand across his brow, raising his head, moistening his lips two or three times before he spoke—­for his throat and mouth grew ever drier and hotter, without his being able to explain the cause—­he succeeded in giving to his features an imperious and ironical expression, and, turning towards Samuel, who wept in silence, he said to him, in a hoarse, guttural voice:  “I need not show you the certificates of their death.  There they are in person.”  And he pointed with his bony hand to the six dead bodies.

At these words of his General, Father Caboccini again made the sign of the cross, as if he had seen a fiend.

“Oh, my God!” cried Samuel; “Thou hast quite abandoned this man.  With what a calm look he contemplates his victims!”

“Come, sir!” said Rodin, with a horrid smile; “this is a natural waxwork exhibition, that is all.  My calmness proves my innocence—­and we had best come at once to business.  I have an appointment at two o’clock.  So let us carry down this casket.”

He advanced towards the marble slab.  Seized with indignation and horror, Samuel threw himself before him, and, pressing with all his might on a knob in the lid of the casket—­a knob which yielded to the pressure—­he exclaimed:  “Since your infernal soul is incapable of remorse, it may perhaps be shaken by disappointed avarice.”

“What does he say?” cried Rodin.  “What is he doing?”

“Look!” said Samuel, in his turn assuming an air of savage triumph.  “I told you, that the spoils of your victims should escape your murderous hands.”

Hardly had he uttered these words, before through the open-work of the iron casket rose a light cloud of smoke, and an odor as of burnt paper spread itself through the room.  Rodin understood it instantly.  “Fire!” he exclaimed, as he rushed forward to seize the casket.  It had been made fast to the heavy marble slab.

“Yes, fire,” said Samuel.  “In a few minutes, of that immense treasure there will remain nothing but ashes.  And better so, than that it should belong to you or yours.  This treasure is not mine, and it only remains for me to destroy it—­since Gabriel de Rennepont will be faithful to the oath he has taken.”

“Help! water! water!” cried Rodin, as he covered the casket with his body, trying in vain to extinguish the flames, which, fanned by the current of air, now issued from the thousand apertures in the lid; but soon the intensity of the fire diminished, a few threads of bluish smoke alone mounted upwards—­and then, all was extinct.