His secretary accompanied him respectfully to his carriage.
"What road, sir ?" asked the postilion, turning round on his saddle.
"The road to ITALY!" answered Rodin's master, with so deep a sigh that it almost resembled a sob.
As the horses started at full gallop, Rodin made a low bow; then he returned to the large, cold, bare apartment.

The attitude, countenance, and gait of this personage seemed to have undergone a sudden change.

He appeared to have increased in dimensions.

He was no longer an automaton, moved by the mechanism of humble obedience.

His features, till now impassible, his glance, hitherto subdued, became suddenly animated with an expression of diabolical craft; a sardonic smile curled his thin, pale lips, and a look of grim satisfaction relaxed his cadaverous face.
In turn, he stopped before the huge globe.