“Positively?”
“Positively. Nothing on earth should force me to it.”
“Nothing.”
“No, sir; nothing.”
“We shall see,” said the marshal, as his hand fell with its full force on the cheek of Father d’Aigrigny.
The Jesuit uttered a cry of fury; all his blood rushed to his face, so roughly handled; the courage of the man (for he was brave), his ancient military ardor, carried him away; his eyes sparkled, and, with teeth firmly set, and clenched fists, he advanced towards the marshal, exclaiming: “The swords! the swords!”
But suddenly, remembering the appearance of Rodin, and the interest which the latter had in bringing about this encounter, he determined to avoid the diabolical snare laid by his former socius, and so gathered sufficient resolution to restrain his terrible resentment.
To his passing fury succeeded a calm, full of contrition; and, wishing to play his part out to the end, he knelt down, and bowing his head and beating his bosom, repeated: “Forgive me, Lord, for yielding to a movement of rage! and, above all, forgive him who has injured me!”
In spite of his apparent resignation, the Jesuit’s voice was neatly agitated. He seemed to feel a hot iron upon his cheek, for never before in his life, whether as a soldier or a priest, had he suffered such an insult. He had thrown himself upon his knees, partly from religious mummery, and partly to avoid the gaze of the marshal, fearing that, were he to meet his eye, he should not be able to answer for himself, but give way to his impetuous feelings. On seeing the Jesuit kneel down, and on hearing his hypocritical invocation, the marshal, whose sword was in his hand, shook with indignation.
“Stand up, scoundrel!” he said, “stand up, wretch!” And he spurned the Jesuit with his boot.