“Pardon me, my children!” said Dagobert, recovering himself after a long silence. “I am wrong to get in a passion, for we do not understand one another. What you say is true; and yet I am right to speak as I do. Listen to me. You are an honest man, Agricola; you an honest girl; what I tell you is meant for you alone. I have brought these children from the depths of Siberia—do you know why? That they may be to-morrow morning in the Rue Saint-Francois. If they are not there, I have failed to execute the last wish of their dying mother.”
“No. 3, Rue Saint Francois?” cried Agricola, interrupting his father.
“Yes; how do you know the number?” said Dagobert.
“Is not the date inscribed on a bronze medal?”
“Yes,” replied Dagobert, more end more surprised; “who told you?”
“One instant, father!” exclaimed Agricola; “let me reflect. I think I guess it. Did you not tell me, my good sister, that Mdlle. de Cardoville was not mad?”
“Not mad. They detain her in this asylum to prevent her communicating with any one. She believes herself, like the daughters of Marshal Simon, the victim of an odious machination.”
“No doubt of it,” cried the smith. “I understand all now, Mdlle. de Cardoville has the same interest as the orphans to appear to-morrow at the Rue Saint-Francois. But she does not perhaps know it.”
“How so?”
“One word more, my good girl. Did Mdlle. de Cardoville tell you that she had a powerful motive to obtain her freedom by to-morrow?”