Monsieur de Sazerac made a sign of assent, and withdrew as far as the door, where the air was less noxious and heavy.
Gabriel, on his knees by the side of the dead man, and with head bent and hands hanging at his side, remained mute and motionless for some moments, praying or dreaming.
What said he to his dead father? Did he ask those lips, which Death's pitiless finger had closed too soon, for the solution of the enigma he was trying to unravel? Did he swear to the sainted victim that he would avenge him in this world, independently of God's vengeance in the world to come? Did he scan those already decomposing features, to conjecture what sort of man had been this father of his whom he now saw for the second time, and to dream of the peaceful and happy life that might have been in store for him under his watchful care? Did his thoughts dwell upon the past or the future; upon the affairs of this world, or the divine power of the Lord; upon vengeance or forgiveness?
The subject of this sombre communion between a dead father and his son remained forever a secret between Gabriel and his God.
Four or five minutes had passed; and breathing had become a painful and laborious task to these two men who had descended to these pestilential depths,—one in the performance of a holy duty, and the other led by an instinct of humanity.
"Again, I beg you to come away," said the kind-hearted governor to Gabriel. "It is full time that we should go up into the air."
"I am coming," said Gabriel, "I am coming."
He took his father's icy hand in his, and kissed it tenderly; he leaned over his damp and decomposing forehead, and left a kiss there, too.
All this passed without a tear. Alas! he could not weep.
"Au revoir!" said he; "au revoir!"