to an already
insulted man, Father d'Aigrigny lost all his presence of mind, forgot his
interests, his resolutions, his fears, forgot even Rodin--felt only the
frenzied ardor of revenge--and, recovering his courage, rejoiced in the
prospect of a close struggle, in which his superior strength promised
success over the enfeebled frame of the marshal for, in this kind of
brutal and savage combat, physical strength offers an immense advantage.
In an instant, Father d'Aigrigny had rolled his handkerchief round the
broken blade, and rushed upon Marshal Simon, who received the shock with
intrepidity. For the short time that this unequal struggle
lasted--unequal, for the marshal had since some days been a prey to a
devouring fever, which had undermined his strength--the two combatants,
mute in their fury, uttered not a word or a cry. Had any one been present
at this horrible scene, it would have been impossible for him to tell how
they dealt their blows. He would have seen two heads--frightful, livid,
convulsed--rising, falling, now here, now there--arms, now stiff as bars
of iron, and now twisting like serpents--and, in the midst of the
undulation of the blue coat of the marshal and the black cassock of the
Jesuit, from time to time the sudden gleam of the steel. He would have
heard only a dull stamping, and now and then a deep breath. In about two
minutes at most, the two adversaries fell, and rolled one over the other.
One of them--it was Father d'Aigrigny--contrived to disengage himself
with a violent effort, and to rise upon his knees. His arms fell
powerless by his side; and then the dying voice of the marshal murmured:
"My children! Dagobert!"

"I have killed him," said Father d'Aigrigny, in a weak voice; "but I
feel--that I am wounded--to death."

Leaning with one hand on the ground, the Jesuit pressed the other to his
bosom. His black cassock was pierced through and through, but the blades,
which had served for the combat, being triangular and very sharp, the
blood instead of issuing from the wounds, was flowing inwards.

"Oh! I die--I choke," said Father d'Aigrigny, whose features were already
changing with the approach of death.

At this moment, the key turned twice in the door, Rodin appeared on the
threshold, and, thrusting in his head, he said in a humble and discreet
voice: "May I come in?"

At this dreadful irony, Father d'Aigrigny strove to rise, and rush upon
Rodin; but he fell back exhausted; the blood w