“Oh! an immense inheritance is in question,” said Faringhea, looking fixedly at Rodin, who prudently turned away his eyes.
The second of the two personages we have mentioned entered at this moment. It was the father of Marshal Simon, an old man of tall stature, still active and vigorous for his age. His hair was white and thin. His countenance, rather fresh-colored, was expressive at once of quickness, mildness and energy.
Agricola advanced hastily to meet him. “You here, M. Simon!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, my boy,” said the marshal’s father, cordially pressing Agricola’s hand “I have just arrived from my journey. M. Hardy was to have been here, about some matter of inheritance, as he supposed: but, as he will still be absent from Paris for some time, he has charged me—”
“He also an heir!—M. Francis Hardy!” cried Agricola, interrupting the old workman.
“But how pale and agitated you are, my boy!” said the marshal’s father, looking round with astonishment. “What is the matter?”
“What is the matter?” cried Dagobert, in despair, as he approached the foreman. “The matter is that they would rob your granddaughters, and that I have brought them from the depths of Siberia only to witness this shameful deed!”
“Eh?” cried the old workman, trying to recognize the soldiers face, “you are then—”
“Dagobert.”
“You—the generous, devoted friend of my son!” cried the marshal’s father, pressing the hands of Dagobert in his own with strong emotion; “but did you not speak of Simon’s daughter?”