Rose and Blanche looked at each other in confusion; they could not understand the fears with which the state of their souls inspired the wife of Dagobert. The latter soon resumed, addressing the young sempstress:
“My good girl, will you render me yet another service?”
“Certainly.”
“My husband took Agricola’s week’s wages with him to pay his journey to Chartres. It was all the money I had in the house; I am sure that my poor child had none about him, and in prison he will perhaps want some. Therefore take my silver cup, fork, and spoon, the two pair of sheets that remain over, and my wadded silk shawl, that Agricola gave me on my birthday, and carry them all to the pawnbroker’s. I will try and find out in which prison my son is confined, and will send him half of the little sum we get upon the things; the rest will serve us till my husband comes home. And then, what shall we do? What a blow for him—and only more misery in prospect—since my son is in prison, and I have lost my sight. Almighty Father!” cried the unfortunate mother, with an expression of impatient and bitter grief, “why am I thus afflicted? Have I not done enough to deserve some pity, if not for myself, at least for those belonging to me?” But immediately reproaching herself for this outburst, she added, “No, no! I ought to accept with thankfulness all that Thou sandiest me. Forgive me for these complaints, or punish only myself!”
“Be of good courage, mother!” said Mother Bunch. “Agricola is innocent, and will not remain long in prison.”
“But now I think of it,” resumed Dagobert’s wife, “to go to the pawnbroker’s will make you lose much time, my poor girl.”
“I can make up that in the night, Madame Frances; I could not sleep, knowing you in such trouble. Work will amuse me.”
“Yes, but the candles—”
“Never mind, I am a little beforehand with my work,” said the poor girl, telling a falsehood.
“Kiss me, at least,” said Frances, with moist eyes, “for you are the very best creature in the world.” So saying, she hastened cut of the room.