“Bless me, sir!” said Dagobert, with impatience; “at my age, one has common sense. These are the facts. My wife is one of the best and most honorable of human creatures—ask any one in the neighborhood, and they will tell you so—but she is a devotee; and, for twenty years, she has always seen with her confessor’s eyes. She adores her son, she loves me also; but she puts the confessor before us both.”
“Sir,” said the commissary, “these family details—”
“Are indispensable, as you shall see. I go out an hour ago, to look after this poor girl here. When I come back, the young ladies have disappeared. I ask my wife to whom she has entrusted them, and where they are; she falls at my feet weeping, and says: ‘Do what you will with me, but do not ask me what has become of the children. I cannot answer you.’”
“Is thus true, madame?” cried the commissary, looking at Frances with surprise.
“Anger, threats, entreaties, had no effect,” resumed Dagobert; “to everything she answered as mildly as a saint: ‘I can tell you nothing!’ Now, sir, I maintain that my wife has no interest to take away these children; she is under the absolute dominion of her confessor; she has acted by his orders and for his purposes; he is the guilty party.”
Whilst Dagobert spoke, the commissary looked more and more attentively at Frances, who, supported by the hunchback, continued to weep bitterly. After a moment’s reflection, the magistrate advanced towards Dagobert’s wife, and said to her: “Madame, you have heard what your husband has just declared.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What have you to say in your justification?”
“But, sir,” cried Dagobert, “it is not my wife that I accuse—I do not mean that; it is her confessor.”
“Sir, you have applied to a magistrate; and the magistrate must act as he thinks best for the discovery of the truth. Once more, madame,” he resumed, addressing Frances, “what have you to say in your justification?”