“Well, then, M. Hardy is wounded in his dearest affections, I admit,” said Father d’Aigrigny, still disputing every inch of ground; “ruined too in his fortune, which will only make him the more eager after this inheritance.”
The argument appeared of weight to the two prelates and the princess; all looked at Rodin with anxious curiosity. Instead of answering he walked up to the sideboard, and, contrary to his habits of stoical sobriety, and in spite of his repugnance for wine, he examined the decanters, and said: “What is there in them?”
“Claret and sherry,” said the hostess, much astonished at the sudden taste of Rodin, “and—”
The latter took a decanter at hazard, and poured out a glass of Madeira, which he drank off at a draught. Just be fore he had felt a strange kind of shivering; to this had succeeded a sort of weakness. He hoped the wine would revive him.
After wiping his mouth with the back of his dirty hand, he returned to the table, and said to Father d’Aigrigny: “What did you tell me about M. Hardy?”
“That being ruined in fortune, he would be the more eager to obtain this immense inheritance,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, inwardly much offended at the imperious tone.
“M. Hardy think of money?” said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders. “He is indifferent to life, plunged in a stupor from which he only starts to burst into tears. Then he speaks with mechanical kindness to those about him. I have placed him in good hands. He begins, however, to be sensible to the attentions shown him, for he is good, excellent, weak; and ii is to this excellence, Father d’Aigrigny, that you must appeal to finish the work in hand.”
“I?” said Father d’Aigrigny, much surprised.
“Yes; and then you will find that the result I have obtained is considerable, and—”
Rodin paused, and, pressing his hand to his forehead, said to himself: “It is strange!”