CHAPTER XXVIII. GOOD NEWS.
By the alteration in the countenance of Father d’Aigrigny, his pale cheek, and the feebleness of his walk, one might see that the terrible scene in the square of Notre-Dame, had violently reacted upon his health. Yet his face was radiant and triumphant, as he entered Rodin’s chamber, exclaiming: “Excellent news!”
On these words, Rodin started. In spite of his weakness, he raised his head, and his eyes shone with a curious, uneasy, piercing expression. With his lean hand, he beckoned Father d’Aigrigny to approach the bed, and said to him, in a broken voice, so weak that it was scarcely audible: “I am very ill—the cardinal has nearly finished me—but if this excellent news—relates to the Rennepont affair—of which I hear nothing—it might save me yet!”
“Be saved then!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, forgetting the recommendations of Dr. Baleinier; “read, rejoice! What you foretold is beginning to be realized!”
So saying, he drew a paper from his pocket, and delivered it to Rodin, who seized it with an eager and trembling hand. Some minutes before, Rodin would have been really incapable of continuing his conversation with the cardinal, even if prudence had allowed him to do so; nor could he have read a single line, so dim had his sight become. But, at the words of Father d’Aigrigny, he felt such a renewal of hope and vigor, that, by a mighty effort of energy and will, he rose to a sitting posture, and, with clear head, and look of intelligent animation, he read rapidly the paper that Father d’Aigrigny had just delivered to him.
The cardinal, amazed at this sudden transfiguration, asked himself if he beheld the same man, who, a few minutes before, had fallen back on his bed, almost insensible. Hardly had Rodin finished reading, than he uttered a cry of stifled joy, saying, with an accent impossible to describe: “ONE gone! it works—‘tis well!” And, closing his eyes in a kind of ecstatic transport, a smile of proud triumph overspread his face, and rendered him still more hideous, by discovering his yellow and gumless teeth. His emotion was so violent, that the paper fell from his trembling hand.
“He has fainted,” cried Father d’Aigrigny, with uneasiness, as he leaned over Rodin. “It is my fault, I forgot that the doctor cautioned me not to talk to him of serious matters.”
“No; do not reproach yourself,” said Rodin, in a low voice, half-raising himself in the bed. “This unexpected joy may perhaps cure me. Yes—I scarce know what I feel—but look at my cheeks—it seems to me, that, for the first time since I have been stretched on this bed of pain, they are a little warm.”
Rodin spoke the truth. A slight color appeared suddenly on his livid and icy cheeks; his voice though still very weak, became less tremulous, and he exclaimed, in a tone of conviction that startled Father d’Aigrigny and the prelate, “This first success answers for the others. I read the future. Yes, yes; our cause will triumph. Every member of the execrable Rennepont family will be crushed—and that soon you will see—”
Then, pausing, Rodin threw himself back on the pillow, exclaiming: “Oh! I am choked with joy. My voice fails me.”
“But what is it?” asked the cardinal of Father d’Aigrigny.
The latter replied, in a tone of hypocritical sanctity: “One of the heirs of the Rennepont family, a poor fellow, worn out with excesses and debauchery, died three days ago, at the close of some abominable orgies, in which he had braved the cholera with sacrilegious impiety. In consequence of the indisposition that kept me at home, and of another circumstance, I only received to-day the certificate of the death of this victim of intemperance and irreligion. I must proclaim it to the praise of his reverence”—pointing to Rodin—“that he told me, the worst enemies of the descendants of that infamous renegade would be their own bad passions, and that the might look to them as our allies against the whole impious race. And so it has happened with Jacques Rennepont.”
“You see,” said Rodin, in so faint a voice that it was almost unintelligible, “the punishment begins already. One of the Renneponts is dead—and believe me—this certificate,” and he pointed to the paper that Father d’Aigrigny held in his hand, “will one day be worth forty millions to the Society of Jesus—and that—because—”
The lips alone finished the sentence. During some seconds, Rodin’s voice had become so faint, that it was at last quite imperceptible. His larynx, contracted by violent emotion, no longer emitted any sound. The Jesuit, far from being disconcerted by this incident, finished his phrase, as it were, by expressive pantomime. Raising his head proudly he tapped his forehead with his forefinger, as if to express that it was to his ability this first success was owing. But he soon fell back again on the bed, exhausted, breathless, sinking, with his cotton handkerchief pressed once more to his parched lips. The good news, as Father d’Aigrigny called it, had not cured Rodin. For a moment only, he had had the courage to forget his pain. But the slight color on his cheek soon disappeared; his face became once more livid. His sufferings, suspended for a moment, were so much increased in violence, that he writhed beneath the coverlet, and buried his face in the pillow, extending his arms above his head, and holding them stiff as bars of iron. After this crisis, intense as it was rapid: during which Father d’Aigrigny and the prelate bent anxiously over him, Rodin, whose face was bathed in cold sweat, made a sign that he suffered less, and that he wished to drink of a potion to which he pointed. Father d’Aigrigny fetched it for him, and while the cardinal held him up with marked disgust, the abbe administered a few spoonfuls of the potion, which almost immediately produced a soothing effect.
“Shall I call M. Rousselet?” said Father d’Aigrigny, when Rodin was once more laid down in bed.
Rodin shook his head; then, with a fresh effort, he raised his right hand, opened it, and pointed with his forefinger to a desk in a corner of the room, to signify that, being no longer able to speak, he wished to write.
“I understand your reverence,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “but first calm yourself. Presently, if you require it. I will give you writing materials.”
Two knocks at the outer door of the next room interrupted this scene. From motives of prudence, Father d’Aigrigny had begged Rousselet to remain in the first of the three rooms. He now went to open the door, and Rousselet handed him a voluminous packet, saying: “I beg pardon for disturbing you, father, but I was told to let you have these papers instantly.”
“Thank you, M. Rousselet,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “do you know at what hour Dr. Baleinier will return?”
“He will not be long, father, for he wishes to perform before night the painful operation, that will have a decisive effect on the condition of Father Rodin. I am preparing what is necessary for it,” added Rousselet, as he pointed to a singular and formidable apparatus, which Father d’Aigrigny examined with a kind of terror.
“I do not know if the symptom is a serious one,” said the Jesuit; “but the reverend father has suddenly lost his voice.”
“It is the third time this has happened within the last week,” said Rousselet; “the operation of Dr. Baleiner will act both on the larynx and on the lungs.”
“Is the operation a very painful one?” asked Father d’Aigrigny.
“There is, perhaps, none more cruel in surgery,” answered the young doctor; “and Dr. Baleinier has partly concealed its nature from Father Rodin.”
“Please to wait here for Dr. Baleinier, and send him to us as soon as he arrives,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny: and, returning to the sick chamber, he sat down by the bedside, and said to Rodin, as he showed him the letter: “Here are different reports with regard to different members of the Rennepont family, whom I have had looked after by others, my indisposition having kept me at home for the last few days. I do not know, father, if the state of your health will permit you to hear—”
Rodin made a gesture, at once so supplicating and peremptory, that Father d’Aigrigny felt there would be at least as much danger in refusing as in granting his request; so, turning towards the cardinal, still inconsolable at not having discovered the Jesuit’s secret, he said to him with respectful deference, pointing at the same time to the letter: “Have I the permission of your Eminence?”
The prelate bowed, and replied: “Your affairs are ours, my dear father. The Church must always rejoice in what rejoices your glorious Company.”
Father d’Aigrigny unsealed the packet, and found in it different notes in different handwritings. When he had read the first, his countenance darkened, and he said, in a grave tone: “A misfortune—a great misfortune.”
Rodin turned his head abruptly, and looked at him with an air of uneasy questioning.
“Florine is dead of the cholera,” answered Father d’Aigrigny; “and what is the worst,” added he, crumpling the note between his hands, “before dying, the miserable creature confessed to Mdlle. de Cardoville that she long acted as a spy under the orders of your reverence.”
No doubt the death of Florine, and the confession she had made, crossed some of the plans of Rodin, for he uttered an inarticulate murmur, and his countenance expressed great vexation.
Passing to another note, Father d’Aigrigny continued: “This relates to Marshal Simon, and is not absolutely bad, but still far from satisfactory, as it announces some amelioration in his position. We shall see if it merits belief, by information from another source.”
Rodin made a sign of impatience, to hasten Father d’Aigrigny to read the note, which he did as follows. “‘For some days, the mind of the marshal has appeared to be less sorrowful, anxious and agitated. He lately passed two hours with his daughters, which had not been the case for some time before. The harsh countenance of the soldier Dagobert is becoming smoother—a sure sign of some amelioration in the condition of the marshal. Detected by their handwriting, the last anonymous letters were returned by Dagobert to the postman, without having been opened by the marshal. Some other method must be found to get them delivered.’”
Looking at Rodin, Father d’Aigrigny said to him: “Your reverence thinks with me that this note is not very satisfactory?”
Rodin held down his head. One saw by the expression of his countenance how much he suffered by not being able to speak. Twice he put his hand to his throat, and looked at Father d’Aigrigny with anguish.
“Oh!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, angrily, when he had perused another note, “for one lucky chance, to-day brings some very black ones.”
At these words turning hastily to Father d’Aigrigny, and extending his trembling hands, Rodin questioned him with look and gesture. The cardinal, sharing his uneasiness, exclaimed: “What do you learn by this note, my dear father?”
“We thought the residence of M. Hardy in our house completely unknown,” replied Father d’Aigrigny, “but we now fear that Agricola Baudoin has discovered the retreat of his old master, and that he has even communicated with him by letter, through a servant of the house. So,” added the reverend father, angrily, “during the three days that I have not been able to visit the pavilion, one of my servants must have been bought over. There is one of them, a man blind of one eye, whom I have always suspected—the wretch! But no: I will not yet believe this treachery. The consequences would be too deplorable; for I know how matters stand, and that such a correspondence might ruin everything. By awaking in M. Hardy memories with difficulty laid asleep, they might destroy in a single day all that has been done since he inhabits our house. Luckily, this note contains only doubts and fears; my other information will be more positive, and will not, I hope, confirm them.”
“My dear father,” said the cardinal, “do not despair. The Lord will not abandon the good cause!”
Father d’Aigrigny seemed very little consoled by this assurance. He remained still and thoughtful, whilst Rodin writhed his head in a paroxysm of mute rage, as he reflected on this new check.
“Let us turn to the last note,” said Father d’Aigrigny, after a moment of thoughtful silence. “I have so much confidence in the person who sends it, that I cannot doubt the correctness of the information it contains. May it contradict the others!”
In order not to break the chain of facts contained in this last note, which was to have so startling an effect on the actors in this scene, we shall leave it to the reader’s imagination to supply the exclamations of surprise, hate, rage and fear of Father d’Aigrigny, and the terrific pantomime of Rodin, during the perusal of this formidable document, the result of the observations of a faithful and secret agent of the reverend fathers. Comparing this note with the other information received, the results appeared more distressing to the reverend fathers. Thus Gabriel had long and frequent conferences with Adrienne, who before was unknown to him. Agricola Baudoin had opened a communication with Francis Hardy, and the officers of justice were on the track of the authors and instigators of the riot which had led to the burning of the factory of Baron Tripeaud’s rival. It seemed almost certain that Mdlle. de Cardoville had had an interview with Prince Djalma.
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This combination of facts showed that, faithful to the threats she had uttered to Rodin, when she had unmasked the double perfidy of the reverend father, Mdlle. de Cardoville was actively engaged in uniting the scattered members of her family, to form a league against those dangerous enemies, whose detestable projects, once unveiled and boldly encountered, could hardly have a chance of success. The reader will now understand the tremendous effect of this note on Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin—on Rodin, stretched powerless on a bed of pain at the moment when the scaffolding, raised with so much labor, seemed to be tumbling around him.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE OPERATION.
We have given up the attempt to paint the countenance, attitude, and gesticulation of Rodin during the reading of this note, which seemed to ruin all his most cherished hopes. Everything was failing at once, at the moment when only superhuman trust in the success of his plans could give him sufficient energy to strive against mortal sickness. A single, absorbing thought had agitated him even to delirium: What progress, during his illness, had been made in this immense affair? He had first heard a good piece of news, the death of Jacques Rennepont; but now the advantages of this decease, which reduced the number of the heirs from seven to six, were entirely lost. To what purpose would be this death, if the other members of the family, dispersed and persecuted with such infernal perseverance, were to unite and discover the enemies who had so long aimed at them in darkness? If all those wounded hearts were to console, enlighten, support each other, their cause would be gained, and the inheritance rescued from the reverend fathers. What was to be done?
Strange power of the human will!—Rodin had one foot in the grave, he was almost at the last gasp; his voice had failed him. And yet that obstinate nature, so full of energy and resources, did not despair. Let but a miracle restore his health, and that firm confidence in the success of his projects which has given him power to struggle against disease, tells him that he could yet save all—but then he must have health and life! Health! life! His physician does not know if he will survive the shock—if he can bear the pain—of a terrible operation. Health! life! and just now Rodin heard talk of the solemn funeral they had prepared for him. And yet—health, life, he will have them. Yes; he has willed to live—and he has lived—why should he not live longer? He will live—because he has willed it.
All that we have just written passed though Rodin’s mind in a second. His features, convulsed by the mental torment he endured, must have assumed a very strange expression, for Father d’Aigrigny and the cardinal looked at him in silent consternation. Once resolved to live, and to sustain a desperate struggle with the Rennepont family, Rodin acted in consequence. For a few moments Father d’Aigrigny and the prelate believed themselves under the influence of a dream. By an effort of unparalleled energy, and as if moved by hidden mechanism, Rodin sprang from the bed, dragging the sheet with him, and trailing it, like a shroud, behind his livid and fleshless body. The room was cold; the face of the Jesuit was bathed in sweat; his naked and bony feet left their moist print upon the stones.
“What are you doing? It is death!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, rushing towards Rodin, to force him to lie down again.
But the latter, extending one of his skeleton arms, as hard as iron, pushed aside Father d’Aigrigny with inconceivable vigor, considering the state of exhaustion in which he had so long been.
“He has the strength of a man in a fit of epilepsy,” said Father d’Aigrigny, recovering his balance.
With a steady step Rodin advanced to the desk on which Dr. Baleinier daily wrote his prescriptions. Seating himself before it, the Jesuit took pen and paper, and began to write in a firm hand. His calm, slow, and sure movements had in them something of the deliberateness remarked in somnambulists. Mute and motionless, hardly knowing whether they dreamed or not, the cardinal and Father d’Aigrigny remained staring at the incredible coolness of Rodin, who, half-naked, continued to write with perfect tranquillity.
“But, father,” said the Abbe d’Aigrigny, advancing towards him, “this is madness!”
Rodin shrugged his shoulders, stopped him with a gesture and made him a sign to read what he had just written.
The reverend father expected to see the ravings of a diseased brain; but he took the note, whilst Rodin commenced another.
“My lord,” exclaimed Father d’Aigrigny, “read this!”
The cardinal read the paper, and returning it to the reverend father with equal amazement, added: “It is full of reason, ability, and resources. We shall thus be able to neutralize the dangerous combination of Abbe Gabriel and Mdlle. de Cardoville, who appear to be the most formidable leaders of the coalition.”
“It is really miraculous,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“Oh, my dear father!” whispered the cardinal, shaking his head; “what a pity that we are the only witnesses of this scene! What an excellent MIRACLE we could have made of it! In one sense, it is another Raising of Lazarus!”
“What an idea, my lord!” answered Father d’Aigrigny, in a low voice. “It is perfect—and we must not give it up—”
This innocent little plot was interrupted by Rodin, who, turning his head, made a sign to Father d’Aigrigny to approach, and delivered to him another sheet, with this note attached: “To be executed within an hour.”
Having rapidly perused the paper, Father d’Aigrigny exclaimed: “Right! I had not thought of that. Instead of being fatal, the correspondence between Agricola and M. Hardy may thus have the best results. Really,” added the reverend father in a low voice to the prelate, while Rodin continued to write, “I am quite confounded. I read—I see—and yet I can hardly believe my eyes. Just before, exhausted and dying—and now with his mind as clear and penetrating as ever. Can this be one of the phenomena of somnambulism, in which the mind alone governs and sustains the body?”
Suddenly the door opened, and Dr. Baleinier entered the room. At sight of Rodin, seated half-naked at the desk, with his feet upon the cold stones, the doctor exclaimed, in a tone of reproach and alarm: “But, my lord—but, father—it is murder to let the unhappy man do this!—If he is delirious from fever, he must have the strait-waistcoat, and be tied down in bed.”
So saying. Dr. Baleinier hastily approached Rodin, and took him by the arm. Instead of finding the skin dry and chilly, as he expected, he found it flexible, almost damp. Struck with surprise, the doctor sought to feel the pulse of the left hand, which Rodin resigned, to him, whilst he continued working with the right.
“What a prodigy!” cried the doctor, as he counted Rodin’s pulse; “for a week past, and even this morning, the pulse has been abrupt, intermittent, almost insensible, and now it is firm, regular—I am really puzzled—what then has happened? I can hardly believe what I see,” added the doctor, turning towards Father d’Aigrigny and the cardinal.
“The reverend father, who had first lost his voice, was next seized with such furious and violent despair caused by the receipt of bad news,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, “that we feared a moment for his life; while now, on the contrary, the reverend father has gained sufficient strength to go to his desk, and write for some minutes, with a clearness of argument and expression, which has confounded both the cardinal and myself.”
“There is no longer any doubt of it,” cried the doctor. “The violent despair has caused a degree of emotion, which will admirably prepare the reactive crisis, that I am now almost certain of producing by the operation.”
“You persist in the operation?” whispered Father d’Aigrigny, whilst Rodin continued to write.
“I might have hesitated this morning; but, disposed as he now is for it, I must profit by the moment of excitement, which will be followed by greater depression.”
“Then, without the operation—” said the cardinal.
“This fortunate and unexpected crisis will soon be over, and the reaction may kill him, my lord.”
“Have you informed him of the serious nature of the operation?”
“Pretty nearly, my lord.”
“But it is time to bring him to the point.”
“That is what I will do, my lord,” said Dr. Baleinier; and approaching Rodin, who continued to write, he thus addressed him, in a firm voice: “My reverend father, do you wish to be up and well in a week?”
Rodin nodded, full of confidence, as much as to say: “I am up already.”
“Do not deceive yourself,” replied the doctor. “This crisis is excellent, but it will not last, and if we would profit by it, we must proceed with the operation of which I have spoken to you—or, I tell you plainly, I answer for nothing after such a shock.”
Rodin was the more struck with these words, as, half an hour ago, he had experienced the short duration of the improvement occasioned by Father d’Aigrigny’s good news, and as already he felt increased oppression on the chest.
Dr. Baleinier, wishing to decide him, added: “In a word, father, will you live or die?”
Rodin wrote rapidly this answer, which he gave to the doctor: “To live, I would let you cut me limb from limb. I am ready for anything.” And he made a movement to rise.
“I must tell you, reverend father, so as not to take you by surprise,” added Dr. Baleinier, “that this operation is cruelly painful.”
Rodin shrugged his shoulders and wrote with a firm hand: “Leave me my head; you may take all the rest.”
The doctor read these words aloud, and the cardinal and Father d’Aigrigny looked at each other in admiration of this dauntless courage.
“Reverend father,” said Dr. Baleinier, “you must lie down.”
Rodin wrote: “Get everything ready. I have still some orders to write. Let me know when it is time.”
Then folding up a paper, which he had sealed with a wafer, Rodin gave these words to Father d’Aigrigny: “Send this note instantly to the agent who addressed the anonymous letters to Marshal Simon.”
“Instantly, reverend father,” replied the abbe; “I will employ a sure messenger.”
“Reverend father,” said Baleinier to Rodin, “since you must write, lie down in bed, and write there, during our little preparations.”
Rodin made an affirmative gesture, and rose. But already the prognostics of the doctor were realized. The Jesuit could hardly remain standing for a second; he fell back into a chair, and looked at Dr. Baleinier with anguish, whilst his breathing became more and more difficult.
The doctor said to him: “Do not be uneasy. But we must make haste. Lean upon me and Father d’Aigrigny.”
Aided by these two supporters, Rodin was able to regain the bed. Once there, he made signs that they should bring him pen, ink, and paper. Then he continued to write upon his knees, pausing from time to time, to breathe with great difficulty.
“Reverend father,” said Baleinier to d’Aigrigny, “are you capable of acting as one of my assistants in the operation? Have you that sort of courage?”
“No,” said the reverend father; “in the army I could never assist at an amputation. The sight of blood is too much for me.”
“There will be no blood,” said the doctor, “but it will be worse. Please send me three of our reverend fathers to assist me, and ask M. Rousselet to bring in the apparatus.”
Father d’Aigrigny went out. The prelate approached the doctor, and whispered, pointing to Rodin: “Is he out of danger?”
“If he stands the operation—yes, my lord.”
“Are you sure that he can stand it?”
“To him I should say ‘yes,’ to you ‘I hope so.’”
“And were he to die, would there be time to administer the sacraments in public, with a certain pomp, which always causes some little delay?”
“His dying may continue, my lord—a quarter of an hour.”
“It is short, but we must be satisfied with that,” said the prelate.
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And, going to one of the windows, he began to tap with his fingers on the glass, while he thought of the illumination effects, in the event of Rodin’s lying in state. At this moment, Rousselet entered, with a large square box under his arm. He placed it on the drawers, and began to arrange his apparatus.
“How many have you prepared?” said the doctor.
“Six, sir.”
“Four will do, but it is well to be fully provided. The cotton is not too thick?”
“Look, sir.”
“Very good.”
“And how is the reverend father?” asked the pupil.
“Humph!” answered the doctor, in a whisper. “The chest is terribly clogged, the respiration hissing, the voice gone—still there is a change.”
“All my fear is, sir, that the reverend father will not be able to stand the dreadful pain.”
“It is another chance; but, under the circumstances, we must risk all. Come, my dear boy, light the—taper; I hear our assistants.”
Just then Father d’Aigrigny entered the room, accompanied by the three Jesuits, who, in the morning, had walked in the garden. The two old men, with their rosy cheeks, and the young one, with the ascetic countenance, all three dressed in black, with their square caps and white bands, appeared perfectly ready to assist Dr. Baleinier in his formidable operation.
CHAPTER XXX. THE TORTURE.
“Reverend fathers,” said Dr. Baleinier, graciously, to the three, “I thank you for your kind aid. What you have to do is very simple, and, by the blessing of heaven, this operation will save the life of our dear Father Rodin.”
The three black-gowns cast up their eyes piously, and then bowed altogether, like one man. Rodin, indifferent to what was passing around him, never ceased an instant to write or reflect. Nevertheless, in spite of his apparent calmness, he felt such difficulty in breathing, that more than once Dr. Baleinier had turned round uneasily, as he heard the stifled rattling in the throat of the sick man. Making a sign to his pupil, the doctor approached Rodin and said to him: “Come, reverend father; this is the important moment. Courage!”
No sign of alarm was expressed in the Jesuit’s countenance. His features remained impassible as those of a corpse. Only, his little reptile eyes sparkled still more brightly in their dark cavities. For a moment, he looked round at the spectators of this scene; then, taking his pen between his teeth, he folded and wafered another letter, placed it on the table beside the bed, and nodded to Dr. Baleinier, as if to say: “I am ready.”
“You must take off your flannel waistcoat, and your shirt, father.” Rodin hesitated an instant, and the doctor resumed: “It is absolutely necessary, father.”
Aided by Baleinier, Rodin obeyed, whilst the doctor added, no doubt to spare his modesty: “We shall only require the chest, right and left, my dear father.”
And now, Rodin, stretched upon his back, with his dirty night-cap still on his head, exposed the upper part of a livid trunk, or rather, the bony cage of a skeleton, for the shadows of the ribs and cartilages encircled the skin with deep, black lines. As for the arms, they resembled bones twisted with cord and covered with tanned parchment.
“Come, M. Rousselet, the apparatus!” said Baleinier.
Then addressing the three Jesuits, he added: “Please draw near, gentlemen; what you have to do is very simple, as you will see.”
It was indeed very simple. The doctor gave to each of his four assistants a sort of little steel tripod about two inches in diameter and three in height; the circular centre of this tripod was filled with cotton; the instrument was held in the left hand by means of a wooden handle. In the right hand each assistant held a small tin tube about eighteen inches long; at one end was a mouthpiece to receive the lips of the operator, and the other spread out so as to form a cover to the little tripod. These preparations had nothing alarming in them. Father d’Aigrigny and the prelate, who looked on from a little distance, could not understand how this operation should be so painful. They soon understood it.
Dr. Baleinier, having thus provided his four assistants, made them approach Rodin, whose bed had been rolled into the middle of the room. Two of them were placed on one side, two on the other.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Dr. Baleinier, “set light to the cotton; place the lighted part on the skin of his reverence, by means of the tripod which contains the wick; cover the tripod with the broad part of the tube, and then blow through the other end to keep up the fire. It is very simple, as you see.”
It was, in fact, full of the most patriarchal and primitive ingenuity. Four lighted cotton rocks, so disposed as to burn very slowly, were applied to the two sides of Rodin’s chest. This is vulgarly called the moxa. The trick is done, when the whole thickness of the skin has been burnt slowly through. It lasts seven or eight minutes. They say that an amputation is nothing to it. Rodin had watched the preparations with intrepid curiosity. But, at the first touch of the four fires, he writhed like a serpent, without being able to utter a cry. Even the expression of pain was denied him. The four assistants being disturbed by, the sudden start of Rodin, it was necessary to begin again.
“Courage, my dear father! offer these sufferings to the Lord!” said Dr. Baleinier, in a sanctified tone. “I told you the operation would be very painful; but then it is salutary in proportion. Come; you that have shown such decisive resolution, do not fail at the last movement!”
Rodin had closed his eyes, conquered by the first agony of pain. He now opened them, and looked at the doctor as if ashamed of such weakness. And yet on the sides of his chest were four large, bleeding wounds—so violent had been the first singe. As he again extended himself on the bed of torture, Rodin made a sign that he wished to write. The doctor gave him the pen, and he wrote as follows, by way of memorandum; “It is better not to lose any time. Inform Baron Tripeaud of the warrant issued against Leonard, so that he may be on his guard.”
Having written this note, the Jesuit gave it to Dr. Baleinier, to hand it to Father d’Aigrigny, who was as much amazed as the doctor and the cardinal, at such extraordinary presence of mind in the midst of such horrible pain. Rodin, with his eyes fixed on the reverend father, seemed to wait with impatience for him to leave the room to execute his orders. Guessing the thought of Rodin, the doctor whispered Father d’Aigrigny, who went out.
“Come, reverend father,” said the doctor, “we must begin again. This time do not move.”
Rodin did not answer, but clasped his hands over his head, closed his eyes, and presented his chest. It was a strange, lugubrious, almost fantastic spectacle. The three priests, in their long black gowns, leaned over this body, which almost resembled a corpse, and blowing through their tubes into the chest of the patient, seemed as if pumping up his blood by some magic charm. A sickening odor of burnt flesh began to spread through the silent chamber, and each assistant heard a slight crackling beneath the smoking trivet; it was the skin of Rodin giving way to the action of fire, and splitting open in four different parts of his chest. The sweat poured from his livid face, which it made to shine; a few locks of his gray hair stood up stiff and moist from his temples. Sometimes the spasms were so violent, that the veins swelled on his stiffened arms, and were stretched like cords ready to break.
Enduring this frightful torture with as much intrepid resignation as the savage whose glory consists in despising pain, Rodin gathered his strength and courage from the hope—we had almost said the certainty—of life. Such was the make of this dauntless character, such the energy of this powerful mind, that, in the midst of indescribable torments, his one fixed idea never left him. During the rare intervals of suffering—for pain is equal even at this degree of intensity—Rodin still thought of the Rennepont inheritance, and calculated his chances, and combined his measures, feeling that he had not a minute to lose. Dr. Baleinier watched him with extreme attention, waiting for the effects of the reaction of pain upon the patient, who seemed already to breathe with less difficulty.
Suddenly Rodin placed his hand on his forehead, as if struck with some new idea, and turning his head towards Dr. Baleinier, made a sign to him to suspend the operation.
“I must tell you, reverend father,” answered the doctor, “that it is not half finished, and, if we leave off, the renewal will be more painful—”
Rodin made a sign that he did not care, and that he wanted to write.
“Gentlemen, stop a moment,” said Dr. Baleinier; “keep down your moxas, but do not blow the fire.”
So the fire was to burn slowly, instead of fiercely, but still upon the skin of the patient. In spite of this pain, less intense, but still sharp and keen, Rodin, stretched upon his back, began to write, holding the paper above his head. On the first sheet he traced some alphabetic signs, part of a cipher known to himself alone. In the midst of the torture, a luminous idea had crossed his mind; fearful of forgetting it amidst his sufferings, he now took note of it. On another paper he wrote the following, which was instantly delivered to Father d’Aigrigny: “Send B. immediately to Faringhea, for the report of the last few days with regard to Djalma, and let B. bring it hither on the instant.” Father d’Aigrigny went out to execute this new order. The cardinal approached a little nearer to the scene of the operation, for, in spite of the bad odor of the room, he took delight in seeing the Jesuit half roasted, having long cherished against him the rancor of an Italian and a priest.
“Come, reverend father,” said the doctor to Rodin, “continue to be admirably courageous, and your chest will free itself. You have still a bitter moment to go through—and then I have good hope.”
The patient resumed his former position. The moment Father d’Aigrigny returned, Rodin questioned him with a look, to which the reverend father replied by a nod. At a sign from the doctor, the four assistants began to blow through the tubes with all their might. This increase of torture was so horrible, that, in spite of his self-control, Rodin gnashed his teeth, started convulsively, and so expanded his palpitating chest, that, after a violent spasm, there rose from his throat and lungs a scream of terrific pain—but it was free, loud, sonorous.
“The chest is free!” cried the doctor, in triumph. “The lungs have play—the voice returns—he is saved!—Blow, gentlemen, blow; and, reverend father, cry out as much as you please: I shall be delighted to hear you, for it will give you relief. Courage! I answer for the result. It is a wonderful cure. I will publish it by sound of trumpet.”
“Allow me, doctor,” whispered Father d’Aigrigny, as he approached Dr. Baleinier; “the cardinal can witness, that I claimed beforehand the publication of this affair—as a miraculous fact.”
“Let it be miraculous then,” answered Dr. Baleinier, disappointed—for he set some value on his own work.
On hearing he was saved, Rodin though his sufferings were perhaps worse than ever, for the fire had now pierced the scarf-skin, assumed almost an infernal beauty. Through the painful contraction of his features shone the pride of savage triumph; the monster felt that he was becoming once more strong and powerful, and he seemed conscious the evils that his fatal resurrection was to cause. And so, of still writhing beneath the flames, he pronounced these words, the first that struggled from his chest: “I told you I should live!”
“You told us true,” cried the doctor, feeling his pulse; “the circulation is now full and regular, the lungs are free. The reaction is complete. You are saved.”
At this moment, the last shreds of cotton had burnt out. The trivets were withdrawn, and on the skeleton trunk of Rodin were seen four large round blisters. The skin still smoked, and the raw flesh was visible beneath. In one of his sudden movements, a lamp had been misplaced, and one of these burns was larger than the other, presenting as it were to the eye a double circle. Rodin looked down upon his wounds. After some seconds of silent contemplation, a strange smile curled his lips. Without changing his position, he glanced at Father d’Aigrigny with an expression impossible to describe, and said to him, as he slowly counted the wounds touching them with his flat and dirty nail: “Father d’Aigrigny, what an omen!—Look here! one Rennepont—two Renneponts—three Renneponts—four Renneponts—where is then the fifth!—Ah! here—this wound will count for two. They are twins.”(41) And he emitted a little dry, bitter laugh. Father d’Aigrigny, the cardinal, and Dr. Baleinier, alone understood the sense of these mysterious and fatal words, which Rodin soon completed by a terrible allusion, as he exclaimed, with prophetic voice, and almost inspired air: “Yes, I say it. The impious race will be reduced to ashes, like the fragments of this poor flesh. I say it, and it will be so. I said I would live—and I do live!”
(41) Jacques Rennepont being dead, and Gabriel out of the field, in consequence of his donation, there remained only five persons of the family—Rose and Blanche, Djalma, Adrienne, and Hardy.