fear, and confidence, with which his genius inspired many
influential persons, Rodin now learned from members of the pontifical
government, that, in case of a possible and probable occurrence, he
might, within a given time, aspire, with a good chance of success, to a
position which has too often excited the fear, the hate, or the envy of
many sovereigns, and which has in turn, been occupied by great, good men,
by abominable scoundrels, and by persons risen from the lowest grades of
society. But for Rodin to attain this end with certainty, it was
absolutely necessary for him to succeed in that project, which he had
undertaken to accomplish without violence, and only by the play and the
rebound of passions skillfully managed. The project was: To secure for
the Society of Jesus the fortune of the Rennepont family.

This possession would thus have a double and immense result; for Rodin,
acting in accordance with his personal views, intended to make of his
Order (whose chief was at his discretion) a stepping-stone and a means of
intimidation. When his first impression of surprise had passed away--an
impression that was only a sort of modesty of ambition and self
diffidence, not uncommon with men of really superior powers--Rodin looked
more coldly and logically on the matter, and almost reproached himself
for his surprise. But soon after, by a singular contradiction, yielding
to one of those puerile and absurd ideas, by which men are often carried
away when they think themselves alone and unobserved, Rodin rose
abruptly, took the letter which had caused him such glad surprise, and
went to display it, as it were, before the eyes of the young swineherd in
the picture: then, shaking his head proudly and triumphantly, casting his
reptile-glance on the portrait, he muttered between his teeth, as he
placed his dirty finger on the pontifical emblem: "Eh, brother? and I
also--perhaps!"

After this ridiculous interpolation, Rodin returned to his seat, and, as
if the happy news he had just received had increased his appetite, he
placed the letter before him, to read it once more, whilst he exercised
his teeth, with a sort of joyous fury, on his hard bread and radish,
chanting an old Litany.

There was something strange, great, and, above all, frightful, in the
contrast afforded by this immense ambition, already almost justified by
events, and contained, as it were, in so miserable an abode. Father
d'Aigrigny (who, if not a very super