“Believe me, I would not hesitate a minute, if it were possible to remain.”
“I was right in disliking the phi of that man,” muttered Dagobert between his teeth. Then he added, with an air of impatience and vexation: “Shall I tell him that he will much oblige us by marching off by himself?”
“I beg you not to do so,” said Gabriel; “it would be useless; I know my duty, and have no will but my superior’s. As soon as you arrive in Paris, I will come and see you, as also my adopted mother, and my dear brother, Agricola.”
“Well—if it must be. I have been a soldier, and know what subordination is,” said Dagobert, much annoyed. “One must put a good face on bad fortune. So, the day after to-morrow, in the Rue Brise-Miche, my boy; for they tell me I can be in Paris by to-morrow evening, and we set out almost immediately. But I say—there seems to be a strict discipline with you fellows!”
“Yes, it is strict and severe,” answered Gabriel, with a shudder, and a stifled sigh.
“Come, shake hands—and let’s say farewell for the present. After all, twenty-four hours will soon pass away.”
“Adieu! adieu!” replied the missionary, much moved, whilst he returned the friendly pressure of the veteran’s hand.
“Adieu, Gabriel!” added the orphans, sighing also, and with tears in their eyes.
“Adieu, my sisters!” said Gabriel—and he left the room with Rodin, who had not lost a word or an incident of this scene.
Two hours after, Dagobert and the orphans had quitted the Castle for Paris, not knowing that Djalma was left at Cardoville, being still too much injured to proceed on his journey. The half-caste, Faringhea, remained with the young prince, not wishing, he said, to desert a fellow countryman.