“With your permission, princess?” said Father d’Aigrigny to Madame de Saint-Dizier.  The latter answered by an impatient wave of the hand, as if she reproached him for the formal demand at such a time.  The reverend father bowed, and dictated these words in a hoarse and hollow voice:  “All our hopes, which of late had become almost certainties, have been suddenly defeated.  The affair of the Rennepont inheritance, in spite of all the care and skill employed upon it, has completely and finally failed.  At the point to which matters had been brought, it is unfortunately worse than a failure; it is a most disastrous event for the Society, which was clearly entitled to this property, fraudulently withdrawn from a confiscation made in our favor.  My conscience at least bears witness, that, to the last moment, I did all that was possible to defend and secure our rights.  But I repeat, we must consider this important affair as lost absolutely and forever, and think no more about it.”

Thus dictating, Father d’Aigrigny’s back was turned towards Rodin.  At a sudden movement made by the socius, in rising and throwing his pen upon the table, instead of continuing to write, the reverend father turned round, and, looking at Rodin with profound astonishment, said to him:  “Well! what are you doing?”

“It is time to end this—­the man is mad!” said Rodin to himself, as he advanced slowly towards the fireplace.

“What! you quit your place—­you cease writing?” said the reverend father, in amazement.  Then, addressing the princess, who shared in his astonishment, he added, as he glanced contemptuously at the socius, “He is losing his senses.”

“Forgive him,” replied Mme. de Saint-Dizier; “it is, no doubt, the emotion caused by the ruin of this affair.”

“Thank the princess, return to your place, and continue to write,” said Father d’Aigrigny to Rodin, in a tone of disdainful compassion, as, with imperious finger, he pointed to the table.

The socius, perfectly indifferent to this new order, approached the fireplace, drew himself up to his full height as he turned his arched back, planted himself firmly on his legs, stamped on the carpet with the heel of his clumsy, greasy shoes, crossed his hands beneath the flaps of his old, spotted coat, and, lifting his head, looked fixedly at Father d’Aigrigny.  The socius had not spoken a word, but his hideous countenance, now flushed, suddenly revealed such a sense of his superiority, and such sovereign contempt for Father d’Aigrigny, mingled with so calm and serene a daring, that the reverend father and the princess were quite confounded by it.  They felt themselves overawed by this little old man, so sordid and so ugly.  Father d’Aigrigny knew too well the customs of the Company, to believe his humble secretary capable of assuming so suddenly these airs of transcendent superiority without a motive, or rather, without a positive right.  Late, too late, the