“Alas!” said the girl, melting into tears, “now I see it all. The man who was lurking about below, this evening, who was observed by the dyer, was, doubtless, a spy, lying in wait for you coming home.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Agricola. “This accusation is quite ridiculous! Do not torment yourself. I never trouble myself with politics. My verses breathe nothing but philanthropy. Am I to blame, if they have been found among the papers of a secret society?” Agricola disdainfully threw the letter upon the table.
“Read! pray read!” said the other; “read on.”
“If you wish it,” said Agricola, “I will; no time is lost.”
He resumed the reading of the letter:
“A warrant is about to be issued against Agricola Baudoin. There is mo doubt of his innocence being sooner or later made clear; but it will be well if he screen himself for a time as much as possible from pursuit, in order that he may escape a confinement of two or three months previous to trial—an imprisonment which would be a terrible blow for his mother, whose sole support he is.
“A SINCERE FRIEND, who is compelled to remain unknown.”
After a moment’s silence, the blacksmith raised his head; his countenance resumed its serenity; and laughing, he said: “Reassure yourself, good Mother Bunch, these jokers have made a mistake by trying their games on me. It is plainly an attempt at making an April-fool of me before the time.”
“Agricola, for the love of heaven!” said the girl, in a supplicating tone; “treat not the warning thus lightly. Believe in my forebodings, and listen to my advice.”
“I tell you again, my good girl,” replied Agricola, “that it is two months since my song was published. It is not in any way political; indeed, if it were, they would not have waited till now before coming down on me.”