“Oh, frightened to death!”

“If you knew—­oh, goodness! if you knew—­”

“But the lamp is extinguished—­why is that?”

“We did not do it.”

“Come—­recover yourselves, poor children, and tell me all about it.  I have no good opinion of this inn; but, luckily, we shall soon leave it.  It was an ill wind that blew me hither—­though, to be sure, there was no other in the village.  But what has happened?”

“You were hardly gone, when the window flew open violently, and the lamp and table fell together with a loud crash.”

“Then our courage failed—­we screamed and clasped each other, for we thought we could hear some one moving in the room.”

“And we were so frightened, that we fainted away.”

Unfortunately, persuaded that it was the violence of the wind which had already broken the glass, and shaken the window, Dagobert attributed this second accident to the same cause as the first, thinking that he had not properly secured the fastening and that the orphans had been deceived by a false alarm.  “Well, well—­it is over now,” said he to them:  “Calm yourselves, and don’t think of it any more.”

“But why did you leave us so hastily, Dagobert?”

“Yes, now I remember—­did we not hear a great noise, sister, and see Dagobert run to the staircase, crying:  ’My horse! what are they doing to my horse?’”

“It was then Jovial who neighed?”

These questions renewed the anguish of the soldier; he feared to answer them, and said, with a confused air:  “Yes—­Jovial neighed—­but it was nothing.  By the by, we must have a light here.  Do you know where I put my flint and steel last evening?  Well, I have lost my senses; it is here in my pocket.  Luckily, too, we have a candle, which I am going to light; I want to look in my knapsack for some papers I require.”

Dagobert struck a few sparks, obtained a light, and saw that the window was indeed open, the table thrown down, and the lamp lying by the side of the knapsack.  He shut the window, set the little table on its feet again, placed the knapsack upon it, and began to unbuckle this last in order to take out his portfolio, which had been deposited along with his cross and purse, in a kind of pocket between the outside and the lining.  The straps had been readjusted with so much care, that there was no appearance of the knapsack having been disturbed; but when the soldier plunged his hand into the pocket above-mentioned, he found it empty.  Struck with consternation, he grew pale, and retreated a step, crying:  “How is this?—­Nothing!”

“What is the matter?” said Blanche.  He made her no answer.  Motionless, he leaned against the table, with his hand still buried in the pocket.  Then, yielding to a vague hope—­for so cruel a reality did not appear possible—­he hastily emptied the contents of the knapsack on the table—­his poor half-worn clothes—­his old uniform-coat of the horse-grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, a sacred relic for the soldiers—­but, turn and return them as he would, he found neither his purse, nor the portfolio that contained his papers, the letters of General Simon, and his cross.