gh esteem in which his
partisans at Rome held his rare capacity, had succeeded in deposing his
General, and in procuring his own elevation to that eminent post. Now,
according to his calculation, aided by the millions he was about to
possess, it would be but one step from that post to the pontifical
throne. A mute witness of this scene, Samuel smiled also with an air of
triumph, as he closed the casket by means of the spring known only to
himself. That metallic sound recalled Rodin from the heights of his mad
ambition to the realities of life, and he said to Samuel in a sharp
voice: "You have heard? These millions must be delivered to me alone."

He extended his hands eagerly and impatiently towards the casket, as if
he would have taken possession of it, before the arrival of the
magistrate. Then Samuel in his turn seemed transfigured, and, folding his
arms upon his breast, and drawing up his aged form to its full height, he
assumed a threatening and imposing air. His eyes flashed with
indignation, and he said in a solemn tone: "This fortune--at first the
humble remains of the inheritance of the most noble of men, whom the
plots of the sons of Loyola drove to suicide--this fortune, which has
since become royal in amount, thanks to the sacred probity of three
generations of faithful servants--this fortune shall never be the reward
of falsehood, hypocrisy and murder. No! the eternal justice of heaven
will not allow it."

"On murder? what do you mean, sir?" asked Rodin, boldly.

Samuel made no answer. He stamped his foot, and extended his arm slowly
towards the extremity of the apartment. Then Rodin and Father Caboccini
beheld an awful spectacle. The draperies on the wall were drawn aside, as
if by an invisible hand. Round a funeral vault, faintly illumined-by the
bluish light of a silver lamp, six dead bodies were ranged upon black
biers, dressed in long black robes. They were: Jacques Rennepont
--Francois Hardy--Rose and Blanche Simon--Adrienne and Djalma. They
appeared to be asleep. Their eyelids were closed, their hands crossed
over their breasts. Father Caboccini, trembling in every limb, made the
sign of the cross, and retreating to the opposite wall, buried his face
in his hands. Rodin on the contrary, with agitated countenance, staring
eyes, and hair standing on end, yielding to an invincible attraction,
advanced towards those inanimate forms. One would have said that these
last of the Renneponts had only just ex