“What are monarchs? sheepish sots! 
   Or they’re robbers, puffed with pride,
   Wearing badges of crime blots,
   Till their certain graves gape wide. 
   If they’ll pour out coin for me,
   I’ll absolve them—­skin and bone! 
   If they haggle—­they shall see,
   My nieces dancing on their throne! 
   So laugh away! 
   Leap, my fay! 
   Only watch one hurt the thunder
   First of all by Zeus under,
   I’m the Pope, the whole world’s wonder!”

Rodin, half-risen from his chair, with outstretched neck and attentive eye, was still listening, when Rose-Pompon, flitting like a bee from flower to flower of her repertoire, had already begun the delightful air of Colibri.  Hearing no more, the Jesuit reseated himself, in a sort of stupor; but, after some minutes’ reflection, his countenance again brightened up, and he seemed to see a lucky omen in this singular incident.  He resumed his pen, and the first words he wrote partook, as it were, of this strange confidence in fate.

“I have never had more hope of success than at this moment.  Another reason to neglect nothing.  Every presentiment demands redoubled zeal.  A new thought occurred to me yesterday.

“We shall act here in concert.  I have founded an ultra-Catholic paper called Neighborly Love.  From its ultramontane, tyrannical, liberticidal fury, it will be thought the organ of Rome.  I will confirm these reports.  They will cause new terrors.

“That will be well.

“I shall raise the question of the liberty of instruction.  The raw liberals will support us.  Like fools, they admit us to equal rights; when our privileges, our influence of the confessional, our obedience to Rome, all place us beyond the circle of equal rights, by the advantages which we enjoy.  Double fools! they think us disarmed, because they have disarmed themselves towards us.

“A burning question—­irritating clamors—­new cause of disgust for the Weak Man.  Every little makes a mickle.

“That also is very well.

“To sum up all in two words.  The end is abdication—­the means, vexation, incessant torture.  The Rennepont inheritance wilt pay for the election.  The price agreed, the merchandise will be sold.”

Rodin here paused abruptly, thinking he had heard some noise at that door of his, which opened on the staircase; therefore he listened with suspended breath; but all remaining silent, he thought he must have been deceived, and took up his pen: 

“I will take care of the Rennepont business—­the hinge on which will turn our temporal operations.  We must begin from the foundation—­substitute the play of interests, and the springs of passion, for the stupid club law of Father d’Aigrigny.  He nearly compromised everything—­and yet he has good parts, knows the world, has powers of seduction, quick insight—­but plays ever in a single key, and is not great enough to make himself