“What is the matter?” said Father d’Aigrigny. “For some moments you have been growing fearfully pale.”
“I do not know ‘what is the matter,” said Rodin, in an altered voice; “my headache increases—I am seized with a sort of giddiness.”
“Sit down,” said the princess, with interest.
“Take something,” said the bishop.
“It will be nothing,” said Rodin, with an effort; “I am no milksop, thank heaven!—I had little sleep last night; it is fatigue—nothing more. I was saying, that I alone could now direct this affair: but I cannot execute the plan myself. I must keep out of the way, and watch in the shade: I must hold the threads, which I alone can manage,” added Rodin, in a faint voice.
“My good father,” said the cardinal uneasily, “I assure you that you are very unwell. Your paleness is becoming livid.”
“It is possible,” answered Rodin, courageously; “but I am not to be so soon conquered. To return to our affair—this is the time, in which your qualities, Father d’Aigrigny, will turn to good account. I have never denied them, and they may now be of the greatest use. You have the power of charming—grace—eloquence—you must—”
Rodin paused again. A cold sweat poured from his forehead. He felt his legs give way under him, notwithstanding his obstinate energy.
“I confess, I am not well,” he said; “yet, this morning, I was as well as ever. I shiver. I am icy cold.”
“Draw near the fire—it is a sudden indisposition,” said the bishop, offering his arm with heroic devotion; “it will not be anything of consequence.”