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 expired.They seemed to be in the first hour of the eternal sleep.[44]
"Behold those whom thou host slain!" cried Samuel, in a voice broken with sobs."Yea! your detestable plots caused their death--and, as they fell one by one, it was my pious care to obtain possession of their poor remains, that they may all repose in the same sepulchre.Oh!--cursed--
cursed--cursed--be thou who has killed them! But their spoils shall escape thy murderous hands."
Rodin, still drawn forward in spite of himself, had approached the funeral couch of Djalma.Surmounting his first alarm, the Jesuit, to assure himself that he was not the sport of frightful dream, ventured to touch the hands of the Asiatic--and found that they were damp and pliant, though cold as ice.
The Jesuit drew back in horror.For some seconds, he trembled convulsively.But, his first amazement over, reflection returned, and, with reflection came that invincible energy, that infernal obstinacy of character, that gave him so much power.Steadying himself on his legs, drawing his hand across his brow, raising his head, moistening his lips two or three times before he spoke--for his throat and mouth grew ever drier and hotter, without his being able to explain the cause--he succeeded in giving to his features an imperious and ironical expression, and, turning towards Samuel, who wept in silence, he said to him, in a hoarse, guttural voice: "I need not show you the certificates of their death.There they are in person." And he pointed with his bony hand to the six dead bodies.
At these words of his General, Father Caboccini again made the sign of the cross, as if he had seen a fiend.
"Oh, my God!" cried Samuel; "Thou hast quite abandoned this man.With what a calm look he contemplates his victims!"
"Come, sir!" said Rodin, with a horrid smile; "this is a natural waxwork exhibition, that is all.My calmness proves my innocence--and we had best come at once to business.I have an appointment at two o'clock.So let us carry down this casket."
He advanced towards the marble slab.Seized with indignation and horror, Samuel threw himself before him, and, pressing with all his might on a knob in the lid of the casket--a knob which yielded to the pressure--he exclaimed: "Since your infernal soul is incapable of remorse, it may perhaps be shaken by disappointed avarice."
"What does he say?" cried Rodin."What is he doing?"
"Look!" said Samuel, in his turn assuming an air of savage triumph."I told you, that the spoils of your victims should escape your murderous hands."
Hardly had he uttered these words, before through the open-work of the iron casket rose a light cloud of smoke, and an odor as of burnt paper spread itself through the room.Rodin understood it instantly."Fire!"
