“Oh! this is too much! too much!” said the Jesuit, seizing the pointed piece of the blade that lay at his feet.
“It is not enough!” said the marshal, panting for breath. “There, Judas!” and he spat in his face.
“If you will not fight now,” added the marshal, “I will beat you like a dog, base child-murderer!”
On receiving the uttermost insult which can be offered to an already insulted man, Father d’Aigrigny lost all his presence of mind, forgot his interests, his resolutions, his fears, forgot even Rodin—felt only the frenzied ardor of revenge—and, recovering his courage, rejoiced in the prospect of a close struggle, in which his superior strength promised success over the enfeebled frame of the marshal for, in this kind of brutal and savage combat, physical strength offers an immense advantage. In an instant, Father d’Aigrigny had rolled his handkerchief round the broken blade, and rushed upon Marshal Simon, who received the shock with intrepidity. For the short time that this unequal struggle lasted—unequal, for the marshal had since some days been a prey to a devouring fever, which had undermined his strength—the two combatants, mute in their fury, uttered not a word or a cry. Had any one been present at this horrible scene, it would have been impossible for him to tell how they dealt their blows. He would have seen two heads—frightful, livid, convulsed—rising, falling, now here, now there—arms, now stiff as bars of iron, and now twisting like serpents—and, in the midst of the undulation of the blue coat of the marshal and the black cassock of the Jesuit, from time to time the sudden gleam of the steel. He would have heard only a dull stamping, and now and then a deep breath. In about two minutes at most, the two adversaries fell, and rolled one over the other. One of them—it was Father d’Aigrigny—contrived to disengage himself with a violent effort, and to rise upon his knees. His arms fell powerless by his side; and then the dying voice of the marshal murmured: “My children! Dagobert!”
“I have killed him,” said Father d’Aigrigny, in a weak voice; “but I feel—that I am wounded—to death.”
Leaning with one hand on the ground, the Jesuit pressed the other to his bosom. His black cassock was pierced through and through, but the blades, which had served for the combat, being triangular and very sharp, the blood instead of issuing from the wounds, was flowing inwards.
“Oh! I die—I choke,” said Father d’Aigrigny, whose features were already changing with the approach of death.
At this moment, the key turned twice in the door, Rodin appeared on the threshold, and, thrusting in his head, he said in a humble and discreet voice: “May I come in?”
At this dreadful irony, Father d’Aigrigny strove to rise, and rush upon Rodin; but he fell back exhausted; the blood was choking him.
“Monster of hell!” he muttered, casting on Rodin a terrible glance of rage and agony. “Thou art the cause of my death.”