“What for?”
“To bring them face to face with you—to tell them: ‘My children, your father thinks that you do not love him.’—I will only say that—and then you will see.”
“Dagobert! I forbid you to do it,” cried the marshal, hastily.
“I don’t care for that—you have no right to be unjust to the poor children,” said the soldier, as he again advanced towards the door.
“Dagobert, I command you to remain here,” cried the marshal.
“Listen to me, general. I am your soldier, your inferior, your servant, if you will,” said the old grenadier, roughly; “but neither rank nor station shall keep me silent, when I have to defend your daughters. All must be explained—I know but one way—and that is to bring honest people face to face.”
If the marshal had not seized him by the arm, Dagobert would have entered the apartment of the young girls.
“Remain!” said the marshal, so imperiously that the soldier, accustomed to obedience, hung his head, and stood still.
“What would you do?” resumed the marshal. “Tell my children, that I think they do not love me? induce them to affect a tenderness they do not feel—when it is not their fault, but mine?”
“Oh, general!” said Dagobert, in a tone of despair, “I no longer feel anger, in hearing you speak thus of your children. It is such grief, that it breaks my heart!”