“Doubt! I am sure of it. To come to that point, they began by turning the head of my poor wife.”
“Then, father, the superior will reply to you that she does not know what you mean, and that the young ladies are not in the convent.”
“And I will reply to her, that they are in the convent witness—Mother Bunch and Spoil-sport.”
“The superior will answer, that she does not know you; that she has no explanations to give you; and will close the wicket.”
“Then I break it open—since one must come to that in the end—so leave me alone, I tell you! ‘sblood! leave me alone!”
“And, on this noise and violence, the porter will run and fetch the guard, and they will begin by arresting you.”
“And what will become of your poor children, then, M. Dagobert?” said Mother Bunch.
Agricola’s father had too much good sense not to feel the truth of these observations of the girl and his son; but he knew also, that, cost what it might, the orphans must be delivered before the morrow. The alternative was terrible—so terrible, that, pressing his two hands to his burning forehead, Dagobert sunk back upon a stone bench, as if struck down by the inexorable fatality of the dilemma.
Agricola and the workwoman, deeply moved by this mute despair, exchanged a sad look. The smith, seating himself beside the soldier, said to him: “Do not be down-hearted, father. Remember what’s been told you. By going with this ring of Mdlle. de Cardoville’s to the influential gentleman she named, the young ladies may be free by to-morrow, or, at worst, by the day after.”
“Blood and thunder! you want to drive me mad!” exclaimed Dagobert, starting up from the bench, and looking at Mother Bunch and his son with so savage an expression that Agricola and the sempstress drew back, with an air of surprise and uneasiness.