Frances threw herself on her husband’s neck, without uttering a word. This mute despair, mingled with convulsive sobs, was heart-rending. Dagobert was obliged to tear himself from his wife’s arms, and striving to conceal his emotion, he said to his son, in an agitated voice: “Let us go—she unmans me. Take care of her, my good Mother Bunch. Agricola—come!”
The soldier slipped the pistols into the pocket of his great coat, and rushed towards the door, followed by Spoil-sport.
“My son, let me embrace you once more—alas! it is perhaps for the last time!” cried the unfortunate mother, incapable of rising, but stretching out her arms to Agricola. “Forgive me! it is all my fault.”
The smith turned back, mingled his tears with those of his mother—for he also wept—and murmured, in a stifled voice: “Adieu, dear mother! Be comforted. We shall soon meet again.”
Then, escaping from the embrace, he joined his father upon the stairs.
Frances Baudoin heaved a long sigh, and fell almost lifeless into the needlewoman’s arms.
Dagobert and Agricola left the Rue Brise-Miche in the height of the storm, and hastened with great strides towards the Boulevard de l’Hopital, followed by the dog.
CHAPTER XIII. BURGLARY.
Half-past eleven had just struck, when Dagobert and his son arrived on the Boulevard de l’Hopital.