“We must do everything,” proceeded Agricola, “to secure success. You have already noticed the little garden-door, near the angle of the wall—that is excellent.”
“We shall get by that way into the garden, and look immediately for the open paling.”
“Yes; for on one side of this paling is the wing inhabited by Mdlle. de Cardoville, and on the other that part of the convent in which the general’s daughters are confined.”
At this moment, Spoil-sport, who was crouching at Dagobert’s feet, rose suddenly, and pricked up his ears, as if to listen.
“One would think that Spoil-sport heard something,” said Agricola. They listened—but heard only the wind, sounding through the tall trees of the boulevard.
“Now I think of it, father—when the garden-door is once open, shall we take Spoil-sport with us?”
“Yes; for if there is a watch-dog, he will settle him. And then he will give us notice of the approach of those who go the rounds. Besides, he is so intelligent, so attached to Rose and Blanche, that (who knows?) he may help to discover the place where they are. Twenty times I have seen him find them in the woods, by the most extraordinary instinct.”
A slow and solemn knell here rose above the noise of the wind: it was the first stroke of twelve.
That note seemed to echo mournfully through the souls of Agricola and his father. Mute with emotion, they shuddered, and by a spontaneous movement, each grasped the hand of the other. In spite of themselves, their hearts kept time to every stroke of the clock, as each successive vibration was prolonged through the gloomy silence of the night.
At the last strobe, Dagobert said to his son, in a firm voice: “It is midnight. Shake hands, and let us forward!”