“Yes, I repeat it,” resumed the cardinal; “with the exception of a few chasms, they were most explicit.”
“Then why repeat them?” said Rodin, with the same sardonic smile on his violet lips.
“Why repeat them?” cried the angry prelate. “In order to gain pardon; for if there is indulgence and mercy for the repentant sinner, there must be condemnation and curses for the hardened criminal!”
“Oh, what torture! I am dying by slow fire!” murmured Rodin. “Since I have told all,” he resumed, “I have nothing more to tell. You know it already.”
“I know all—doubtless, I know all,” replied the prelate, in a voice of thunder; “but how have I learned it? By confessions made in a state of unconsciousness. Do you think they will avail you anything? No; the moment is solemn—death is at hand, tremble to die with a sacrilegious falsehood on your lips,” cried the prelate, shaking Rodin violently by the arm; “dread the eternal flames, if you dare deny what you know to be the truth. Do you deny it?”
“I deny nothing,” murmured Rodin, with difficulty. “Only leave me alone!”
“Then heaven inspires you,” said the cardinal, with a sigh of satisfaction; and, thinking he had nearly attained his object, he resumed, “Listen to the divine word, that will guide you, father. You deny nothing?”
“I was—delirious—and cannot—(oh! how I suffer!)” added Rodin, by way of parenthesis; “and cannot therefore—deny—the nonsense—I may have uttered!”
“But when this nonsense agrees with the truth,” cried the prelate, furious at being again deceived in his expectation; “but when raving is an involuntary, providential revelation—”
