according to his calculation, aided by the millions he was about to possess, it would be but one step from that post to the pontifical throne.  A mute witness of this scene, Samuel smiled also with an air of triumph, as he closed the casket by means of the spring known only to himself.  That metallic sound recalled Rodin from the heights of his mad ambition to the realities of life, and he said to Samuel in a sharp voice:  “You have heard?  These millions must be delivered to me alone.”

He extended his hands eagerly and impatiently towards the casket, as if he would have taken possession of it, before the arrival of the magistrate.  Then Samuel in his turn seemed transfigured, and, folding his arms upon his breast, and drawing up his aged form to its full height, he assumed a threatening and imposing air.  His eyes flashed with indignation, and he said in a solemn tone:  “This fortune—­at first the humble remains of the inheritance of the most noble of men, whom the plots of the sons of Loyola drove to suicide—­this fortune, which has since become royal in amount, thanks to the sacred probity of three generations of faithful servants—­this fortune shall never be the reward of falsehood, hypocrisy and murder.  No! the eternal justice of heaven will not allow it.”

“On murder? what do you mean, sir?” asked Rodin, boldly.

Samuel made no answer.  He stamped his foot, and extended his arm slowly towards the extremity of the apartment.  Then Rodin and Father Caboccini beheld an awful spectacle.  The draperies on the wall were drawn aside, as if by an invisible hand.  Round a funeral vault, faintly illumined-by the bluish light of a silver lamp, six dead bodies were ranged upon black biers, dressed in long black robes.  They were:  Jacques Rennepont —­Francois Hardy—­Rose and Blanche Simon—­Adrienne and Djalma.  They appeared to be asleep.  Their eyelids were closed, their hands crossed over their breasts.  Father Caboccini, trembling in every limb, made the sign of the cross, and retreating to the opposite wall, buried his face in his hands.  Rodin on the contrary, with agitated countenance, staring eyes, and hair standing on end, yielding to an invincible attraction, advanced towards those inanimate forms.  One would have said that these last of the Renneponts had only just expired.  They seemed to be in the first hour of the eternal sleep.[44]

“Behold those whom thou host slain!” cried Samuel, in a voice broken with sobs.  “Yea! your detestable plots caused their death—­and, as they fell one by one, it was my pious care to obtain possession of their poor remains, that they may all repose in the same sepulchre.  Oh!—­cursed—­cursed—­cursed—­be thou who has killed them!  But their spoils shall escape thy murderous hands.”

Rodin, still drawn forward in spite of himself, had approached the funeral couch of Djalma.  Surmounting his first alarm, the Jesuit, to assure himself that he was not the sport of frightful dream, ventured to touch the hands of the Asiatic—­and found that they were damp and pliant, though cold as ice.