At this picture, drawn by Rodin with a feverish animation, which had only the more influence from its unexpectedness, the princess and Father d’Aigrigny looked at each other in confusion.

“I confess,” said the reverend father to Rodin, “I had not considered all the dangerous consequences of this association, recommended by M. de Rennepont.  I believe that the heir, from the characters we know them to be possessed of, would wish to realize this Utopia.  The peril is great and pressing; what is to be done?”

“What, sir?  You have to act upon ignorant, heroic, enthusiastic natures like Djalma’s—­sensual and eccentric characters like Adrienne de Cardoville’s—­simple and ingenuous minds like Rose and Blanche Simon’s—­honest and frank dispositions like Francis Hardy’s—­angelic and pure souls like Gabriel’s—­brutal and stupid instincts like Jacques—­and can you ask, ‘What is to be done?’”

“In truth, I do not understand you,” said Father d’Aigrigny.

“I believe it.  Your past conduct shows as much,” replied Rodin, contemptuously.  “You have had recourse to the lowest and most mechanical contrivances, instead of acting upon the noble and generous passions, which, once united, would constitute so formidable a bond; but which, now divided and isolated, are open to every surprise, every seduction, every attack!  Do you, at length understand me?  Not yet?” added Rodin, shrugging his shoulders.  “Answer me—­do people die of despair?”

“Yes.”

“May not the gratitude of successful love reach the last limits of insane generosity?”

“Yes.”

“May there not be such horrible deceptions, that suicide is the only refuge from frightful realities?”

“Yes.”

“May not the excess of sensuality lead to the grave by a slow and voluptuous agony?”

“Yes.”

“Are there not in life such terrible circumstances that the most worldly, the firmest, the most impious characters, throw themselves blindly, overwhelmed with despair, into the arms of religion, and abandon all earthly greatness for sackcloth, and prayers, and solitude?”

“Yes.”

“Are there not a thousand occasions in which the reaction of the passions works the most extraordinary changes, and brings about the most tragic catastrophes in the life of man and woman?”

“No doubt.”

“Well, then! why ask me, `What is to be done?’ What would you say, for example, if before three months are over, the most dangerous members of this family of the Renneponts should come to implore, upon their knees, admission to that very Society which they now hold in horror, and from which Gabriel has just separated?”

“Such a conversion is impossible,” cried Father d’Aigrigny.