completely white.  His pale, thin face had not been shaved for some days.  His hollow eyes were bloodshot and restless, and had in them something wild and haggard.  He was wrapped in a large cloak, and his black cravat was tied loosely about his neck.  In withdrawing from the apartment, Rodin had (as if by inadvertence) double-locked the door on the outside.  When he was alone with the Jesuit, the marshal threw back his cloak from his shoulders, and Father d’Aigrigny could see two naked swords, stuck through a silk handkerchief which served him as a belt.

Father d’Aigrigny understood it all.  He remembered how, a few days before, Rodin had obstinately pressed him to say what he would do if the marshal were to strike him in the face.  There could be no doubt that he, who thought to have held the fate of Rodin in his hands, had been brought by the latter into a fearful peril; for he knew that, the two outer rooms being closed, there was no possibility of making himself heard, and that the high walls of the garden only bordered upon some vacant lots.  The first thought which occurred to him, one by no means destitute of probability, was that Rodin, either by his agents at Rome, or by his own incredible penetration, had learned that his fate depended on Father d’Aigrigny, and hoped therefore to get rid of him, by delivering him over to the inexorable vengeance of the father of Rose and Blanche.  Without speaking a word, the marshal unbound the handkerchief from his waist, laid the two swords upon the table, and, folding his arms upon his breast, advanced slowly towards Father d’Aigrigny.  Thus these two men, who through life had pursued each other with implacable hatred, at length met face to face—­they, who had fought in hostile armies, and measured swords in single combat, and one of whom now came to seek vengeance for the death of his children.  As the marshal approached, Father d’Aigrigny rose from his seat.  He wore that day a black cassock, which rendered still more visible the pale hue, which had now succeeded to the sudden flush on his cheek.  For a few seconds, the two men stood face to face without speaking.  The marshal was terrific in his paternal despair.  His calmness, inexorable as fate, was more impressive than the most furious burst of anger.

“My children are dead,” said he at last, in a slow and hollow tone.  “I come to kill you.”

“Sir,” cried Father d’Aigrigny, “listen to me.  Do not believe—­”

“I must kill you,” resumed the marshal, interrupting the Jesuit; “your hate followed my wife into exile, where she perished.  You and your accomplices sent my children to certain death.  For twenty years you have been my evil genius.  I must have your life, and I will have it.”

“My life belongs, first, to God,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, piously, “and then to who likes to take it.”

“We will fight to the death in this room,” said the marshal; “and, as I have to avenge my wife and children, I am tranquil as to the result.”