imagination.  Then, too, there would be Prince Djalma, chivalrous, bold, ready for adventure, knowing nothing of civilized life, implacable in his hate as in his affection, a terrible instrument for whoever can make use of him.  In this detestable family, even such a wretch as Sleepinbuff, who in himself is of no value, raised and purified by the contact of these generous and far from narrow natures (as they call them), might represent the working class, and take a large share in the influence of that association.  Now do you not think that if all these people, already exasperated against us, because (as they say) we have wished to rob them, should follow the detestable counsels of this Rennepont—­should unite their forces around this immense fortune, which would strengthen them a hundred-fold—­do you not think that, if they declare a deadly war against us, they will be the most dangerous enemies that we have ever had?  I tell you that the Company has never been in such serious peril; yes, it is now a question of life and death.  We must no longer defend ourselves, but lead the attack, so as to annihilate this accursed race of Rennepont, and obtain possession of these millions.”

At this picture, drawn by Rodin with a feverish animation, which had only the more influence from its unexpectedness, the princess and Father d’Aigrigny looked at each other in confusion.

“I confess,” said the reverend father to Rodin, “I had not considered all the dangerous consequences of this association, recommended by M. de Rennepont.  I believe that the heir, from the characters we know them to be possessed of, would wish to realize this Utopia.  The peril is great and pressing; what is to be done?”

“What, sir?  You have to act upon ignorant, heroic, enthusiastic natures like Djalma’s—­sensual and eccentric characters like Adrienne de Cardoville’s—­simple and ingenuous minds like Rose and Blanche Simon’s—­honest and frank dispositions like Francis Hardy’s—­angelic and pure souls like Gabriel’s—­brutal and stupid instincts like Jacques—­and can you ask, ‘What is to be done?’”

“In truth, I do not understand you,” said Father d’Aigrigny.

“I believe it.  Your past conduct shows as much,” replied Rodin, contemptuously.  “You have had recourse to the lowest and most mechanical contrivances, instead of acting upon the noble and generous passions, which, once united, would constitute so formidable a bond; but which, now divided and isolated, are open to every surprise, every seduction, every attack!  Do you, at length understand me?  Not yet?” added Rodin, shrugging his shoulders.  “Answer me—­do people die of despair?”

“Yes.”

“May not the gratitude of successful love reach the last limits of insane generosity?”

“Yes.”

“May there not be such horrible deceptions, that suicide is the only refuge from frightful realities?”

“Yes.”

“May not the excess of sensuality lead to the grave by a slow and voluptuous agony?”