“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.”

“If you were to take something warm, a cup of tea,” said the princess; “Dr. Baleinier will be here directly—­he will reassure us as to this—­indisposition.”

“It is really inexplicable,” said the prelate.

At these words of the cardinal, Rodin, who had advanced with difficulty towards the fire, turned his eyes upon the prelate, and looked at him fixedly in a strange manner, for about a second; then, strong in his unconquerable energy, notwithstanding the change in his features, which were now visibly disfigured, Rodin said, in a broken voice, which he tried to make firm:  “The fire has warmed me; it will be nothing.  I have no time to coddle myself.  It would be a pretty thing to fall ill just as the Rennepont affair can only succeed by my exertions!  Let us return to business.  I told you, Father d’Aigrigny, that you might serve us a good deal; and you also, princess, who have espoused this cause as if it were your own—­”

Rodin again paused.  This time he uttered a piercing cry, sank upon a chair placed near him, and throwing himself back convulsively, he pressed his hands to his chest, and exclaimed:  “Oh! what pain!”

Then (dreadful sight!) a cadaverous decomposition, rapid as thought, took place in Rodin’s features.  His hollow eyes were filled with blood, and seemed to shrink back in their orbits, which formed, as it were, two dark holes, in the centre of which blazed points of fire; nervous convulsions drew the flabby, damp, and icy skin tight over the bony prominences of the face, which was becoming rapidly green.  From the lips, writhing with pain, issued the struggling breath, mingled with the words:  “Oh!  I suffer!  I burn!”