these words had brought his rage to a climax, he bounded from his seat, and, with haggard eyes, strode about the room for some seconds in all directions, as if he sought for some weapon, and uttered from time to time a hoarse cry, which he endeavored to stifle by thrusting his clinched fist against his mouth, whilst his jaws moved convulsively. It was the impotent rage of a wild beast, thirsting for blood. Yet, in all this, the young Indian preserved a great and savage beauty; it was evident that these instincts of sanguinary ardor and blind intrepidity, now excited to this pitch by horror of treachery and cowardice, when applied to war, or to those gigantic Indian hunts, which are even more bloody than a battle, must make of Djalma what he really was a hero.
Rodin admired, with deep and ominous joy, the fiery impetuosity of passion in the young Indian, for, under various conceivable circumstances, the effect must be terrible. Suddenly, to the Jesuit's great surprise, the tempest was appeased. Djalma's fury was calmed thus instantaneously, because refection showed him how vain it was: ashamed of his childish violence, he cast down his eyes. His countenance remained pale and gloomy; and, with a cold tranquillity, far more formidable than the violence to which he had yielded, he said to Rodin: 'Father, you will this day lead me to meet my enemies.'
'In what end, my dear prince? What would you do?'
'Kill the cowards!'
'Kill them! you must not think of it.'
'Faringhea will aid me.'
'Remember, you are not on the banks of the Ganges, and here one does not kill an enemy like a hunted tiger.'
'One fights with a loyal enemy, but one kills a traitor like an accursed dog,' replied Djalma, with as much conviction as tranquillity.
'Ah, prince, whose father was the Father of the Generous,' said Rodin, in a grave voice; 'what pleasure can you find in striking down creatures as cowardly as they are wicked?'
'To destroy what is dangerous, is a duty.'
'So prince, you seek for revenge.'
'I do not revenge myself on a serpent,' said the Indian, with haughty bitterness; 'I crush it.'
'But, my dear prince, here we cannot get rid of our enemies in that manner. If we have cause of complaint —'
'Women and children complain,' said Djalma, interrupting Rodin: 'men strike.'
'Still on the banks of the Ganges, my dear prince. Here society takes your cause into its own hands, examines, judges, and if there be good reason, punishes.'
'In my own quarrel, I am both judge and executioner.'
'Pray listen to me; you have escaped the odious snares of your enemies, have you not?—Well! suppose it were thanks to the devotion of the venerable woman who has for you the tenderness of a mother, and that she were to ask you to forgive them—she, who saved you from their hands—what would you do then?'
The Indian hung his head, and was silent. Profiting by his hesitation, Rodin continued: 'I might say to you that I know your enemies, but that in the dread of seeing you commit some terrible imprudence, I would conceal their names from you forever. But no! I swear to you, that if the respectable person, who loves you as her son, should find it either right or useful that I should tell you their names, I will do so—until she has pronounced, I must be silent.'
Djalma looked at Rodin with a dark and wrathful air. At this moment, Faringhea entered, and said to Rodin: 'A man with a letter, not finding you at home, has been sent on here. Am I to receive it? He says it comes from the Abbe d'Aigrigny.
'Certainly,' answered Rodin. 'That is,' he added, 'with the prince's permission.'
Djalma nodded in reply; Faringhea went out.
'You will excuse what I have done, dear prince. I expected this morning a very important letter. As it was late in coming to hand, I ordered it to be sent on.'
A few minutes after, Faringhea returned with the letter, which he delivered to Rodin—and the half-caste again withdrew.
CHAPTER XLIV. ADRIENNE AND DJALMA.
When Faringhea had quitted the room, Rodin took the letter from Abbe d'Aigrigny with one hand, and with the other appeared to be looking for something, first in the side pocket of his great-coat, then in the pocket behind, then in that of his trousers; and, not finding what he sought, he laid the letter on his knee, and felt himself all over with both hands, with an air of regret and uneasiness. The divers movements of this pantomime, performed in the most natural manner, were crowned by the exclamations.
'Oh! dear me! how vexatious!'
'What is the matter?' asked Djalma, starting from the gloomy silence in which he had been plunged for some minutes.
'Alas! my dear prince!' replied Rodin, 'the most vulgar and puerile accident may sometimes cause the greatest inconvenience. I have forgotten or lost my spectacles. Now, in this twilight, with the very poor eyesight that years of labor have left me, it will be absolutely impossible for me to read this most important letter—and an immediate answer is expected—most simple and categorical—a yes or a no. Times presses; it is really most annoying. If,' added Rodin, laying great stress on his words, without looking at Djalma, but so as the prince might remark it; 'if only some one would render me the service to read it for me; but there is no one—no—one!'
'Father,' said Djalma, obligingly, 'shall I read it for you. When I have finished it, I shall forget what I have read.'
'You?' cried Rodin, as if the proposition of the Indian had appeared to him extravagant and dangerous; 'it is impossible, prince, for you to read this letter.'
'Then excuse my having offered,' said Djalma mildly.
'And yet,' resumed Rodin, after a moment's reflection, and as if speaking to himself, 'why not?'
And he added, addressing Djalma: 'Would you really be so obliging, my dear prince? I should not have ventured to ask you this service.'
So saying, Rodin delivered the letter to Djalma, who read aloud as follows: ''Your visit this morning to Saint- Dizier House can only be considered, from what I hear, as a new act of aggression on your part.
''Here is the last proposition I have to make. It may be as fruitless as the step I took yesterday, when I called upon you in the Rue Clovis.
''After that long and painful explanation, I told you that I would write to you. I keep my promise, and here is my ultimatum.
''First of all, a piece of advice. Beware! If you are determined to maintain so unequal a struggle, you will be exposed even to the hatred of those whom you so foolishly seek to protect. There are a thousand ways to ruin you with them, by enlightening them as to your protects. It will be proved to them, that you have shared in the plat, which you now pretend to reveal, not from generosity, but from cupidity.'' Though Djalma had the delicacy to feel that the least question on the subject of this letter would be a serious indiscretion, he could not forbear turning his head suddenly towards the Jesuit, as he read the last passage.
'Oh, yes! it relates to me. Such as you see me, my dear prince,' added he, glancing at his shabby clothes, 'I am accused of cupidity.'
'And who are these people that you protect?'
'Those I protect?' said Rodin feigning some hesitation, as if he had been embarrassed to find an answer; 'who are those I protect? Hem—hem—I will tell you. They are poor devils without resources; good people without a penny, having only a just cause on their side, in a lawsuit in which they are engaged. They are threatened with destruction by powerful parties—very powerful parties; but, happily, these latter are known to me, and I am able to unmask them. What else could have been? Being myself poor and weak, I range myself naturally on the side of the poor and weak. But continue, I beg of you.'
Djalma resumed: ''You have therefore every-thing to fear if you persist in your hostility, and nothing to gain by taking the side of those whom you call your friends. They might more justly be termed your dupes, for your disinterestedness would be inexplicable, were it sincere. It must therefore conceal some after-thought of cupidity.
''Well! in that view of the case, we can offer you ample compensation—with this difference, that your hopes
