Rodin wiped the cold sweat from his burning forehead. The emotion of this scene augmented his sufferings, and aggravated the danger of his condition. Worn out with fatigue, he could not remain long in a sitting posture, and soon fell back upon the bed.
“Per Bacco!” said the cardinal to himself, alarmed at the expression of the Jesuit’s face; “if he were to die before he had spoken, and so escape the snare!”
Then, leaning over the bed, the prelate asked: “What is the matter, my very dear father?”
“I am weak, my lord—I am in pain—I cannot express what I suffer.”
“Let us hope, my very dear father, that this crisis will have no fatal results; but the contrary may happen, and it behooves the salvation of your soul to make instantly the fullest confession. Were it even to exhaust your strength, what is this perishable body compared to eternal life?”
“Of what confession do you speak, my lord?” said Rodin, in a feeble and yet sarcastic tone.
“What confession!” cried the amazed cardinal; “why, with regard to your dangerous intrigues at Rome.”
“What intrigues?” asked Rodin.
“The intrigues you revealed during your delirium,” replied the prelate, with still more angry impatience. “Were not your avowals sufficiently explicit? Why, then, this culpable hesitation to complete them?”
“My avowals—were explicit—you assure me?” said Rodin, pausing after each word for want of breath, but without losing his energy and presence of mind.