These words pronounced with conviction and gravity, destroyed the last vague hopes that the representatives of the heirs might till then have entertained.  Samuel became paler than usual, and pressed convulsively the hand of Bathsheba, who had drawn near to him.  Large tears rolled down the cheeks of the two old people.  Dagobert and Agricola were plunged into the deepest dejection.  Struck with the reasoning of the notary, who refused to give more credence and authority to their remonstrances than the magistrates had done before him, they saw themselves forced to abandon every hope.  But Gabriel suffered more than any one; he felt the most terrible remorse, in reflecting that, by his blindness, he had been the involuntary cause and instrument of this abominable theft.

So, when the notary, after having examined and verified the amount of securities contained in the cedar box, said to Father d’Aigrigny:  “Take possession, sir, of this casket—­” Gabriel exclaimed, with bitter disappointment and profound despair:  “Alas! one would fancy, under these circumstances, that an inexorable fatality pursues all those who are worthy of interest, affection or respect.  Oh, my God!” added the young priest, clasping his hands with fervor, “Thy sovereign justice will never permit the triumph of such iniquity.”

It was as if heaven had listened to the prayer of the missionary.  Hardly had he spoken, when a strange event took place.

Without waiting for the end of Gabriel’s invocation, Rodin, profiting by the decision of the notary, had seized the casket in his arms, unable to repress a deep aspiration of joy and triumph.  At the very moment when Father d’Aigrigny and his socius thought themselves at last in safe possession of the treasure, the door of the apartment in which the clock had been heard striking was suddenly opened.

A woman appeared upon the threshold.

At sight of her, Gabriel uttered a loud cry, and remained as if thunderstruck.  Samuel and Bathsheba fell on their knees together, and raised their clasped hands.  The Jew and Jewess felt inexplicable hopes reviving within them.

All the other actors in this scene appeared struck with stupor.  Rodin—­Rodin himself—­recoiled two steps, and replaced the casket on the table with a trembling hand.  Though the incident might appear natural enough—­a woman appearing on the threshold of a door, which she had just thrown open—­there was a pause of deep and solemn silence.  Every bosom seemed oppressed, and as if struggling for breath.  All experienced, at sight of this woman, surprise mingled with fear, and indefinable anxiety—­for this woman was the living original of the portrait, which had been placed in the room a hundred and fifty years ago.  The same head-dress, the same flowing robe, the same countenance, so full of poignant and resigned grief!  She advanced slowly, and without appearing to perceive the deep impression she had caused.  She approached one of the pieces of furniture, inlaid with brass, touched a spring concealed in the moulding of gilded bronze, so that an upper drawer flew open, and taking from it a sealed parchment envelope, she walked up to the table, and placed this packet before the notary, who, hitherto silent and motionless, received it mechanically from her.