“Who is that?” asked the princess.

“Morok.  I could count upon him anywhere and for anything.  He is lost to us; for, should he recover from the cholera, I fear he will fall a victim to a horrible and incurable disease.”

“How so?”

“A few days ago, he was bitten by one of the mastiffs of his menagerie, and, the next day, the dog showed symptoms of hydrophobia.”

“Ah! it is dreadful,” cried the princess; “and where is this unfortunate man?”

“He has been taken to one of the temporary hospitals established in Paris, for at present he has only been attacked with cholera.  It is doubly unfortunate, I repeat, for he was a devoted, determined fellow, ready for anything.  Now this soldier, who has the care of the orphans, will be very difficult to get at, and yet only through him can we hope to reach Marshal Simon’s daughters.”

“That is clear,” said Rodin, thoughtfully.

“Particularly since the anonymous letters have again awakened his suspicions,” added Father d’Aigrigny “and—­”

“Talking of the anonymous letters,” said Rodin suddenly, interrupting Father d’Aigrigny, “there is a fact that you ought to know; I will tell you why.”

“What is it?”

“Besides the letters that you know of, Marshal Simon has received a number of others unknown to you, in which, by every possible means, it is tried to exasperate his irritation against yourself—­for they remind him of all the reasons he has to hate you, and mock at him, because your sacred character shelters you from his vengeance.”

Father d’Aigrigny looked at Rodin with amazement, colored in spite of himself, and said to him:  “But for what purpose has your reverence acted in this manner?”

“First of all, to clear myself of suspicion with regard to the letters; then, to excite the rage of the marshal to madness, by incessantly reminding him of the just grounds he has to hate you, and of the impossibility of being avenged upon you.  This, joined to the other emotions of sorrow and anger, which ferment in the savage bosom of this man of bloodshed, tended to urge him on to the rash enterprise, which is the consequence and the punishment of his idolatry for a miserable usurper.”

“That may be,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with an air of constraint:  “but I will observe to your reverence, that it was, perhaps, rather dangerous thus to excite Marshal Simon against me.”

“Why?” asked Rodin, as he fixed a piercing look upon Father d’Aigrigny.

“Because the marshal, excited beyond all bounds, and remembering only our mutual hate, might seek me out—­”

“Well! and what then?”

“Well! he might forget that I am a priest—­”

“Oh, you are afraid are you?” said Rodin, disdainfully, interrupting Father d’Aigrigny.

At the words:  “You are afraid,” the reverend father almost started from his chair; but recovering his coolness, he answered:  “Your reverence is right; yes, I should be afraid under such circumstances; I should be afraid of forgetting that I am a priest, and of remembering too well that I have been a soldier.”