“Listen to me, wife,” resumed Dagobert in a broken voice, interrupted by involuntary starts, which betrayed the boiling impatience he could hardly restrain.  “Understand me—­this cannot pass over in this manner—­you know.  I will never use violence towards you—­just now, I gave way to a first moment of hastiness—­I am sorry for it.  Be sure, I shall not do so again:  but, after all, I must know what has become of these children.  Their mother entrusted them to my care, and I did not bring them all the way from Siberia, for you to say to me:  ’Do not ask me—­I cannot tell you what I have done with them.’  There is no reason in that.  Suppose Marshal Simon were to arrive, and say to me, ‘Dagobert, my children?’ what answer am I to give him?  See, I am calm—­judge for yourself—­I am calm—­but just put yourself in my place, and tell me—­what answer am I to give to the marshal?  Well—­what say you!  Will you speak!”

“Alas! my dear—­”

“It is of no use crying alas!” said the soldier wiping his forehead, on which the veins were swollen as if they would burst; “what am I to answer to the marshal?”

“Accuse me to him—­I will bear it all—­I will say—­”

“What will you say?”

“That, on going out, you entrusted the two girls to me, and that not finding them on return you asked be about them—­and that my answer was, that I could not tell you what had become of them.”

“And you think the marshal will be satisfied with such reasons?” cried Dagobert, clinching his fists convulsively upon his knees.

“Unfortunately, I can give no other—­either to him or you—­no—­not if I were to die for it.”

Dagobert bounded from his chair at this answer, which was given with hopeless resignation.  His patience was exhausted; but determined not to yield to new bursts of anger, or to spend his breath in useless menaces, he abruptly opened one of the windows, and exposed his burning forehead to the cool air.  A little calmer, he walked up and down for a few moments, and then returned to seat himself beside his wife.  She, with her eyes bathed in tears, fixed her gaze upon the crucifix, thinking that she also had to bear a heavy cross.

Dagobert resumed:  “By the manner in which you speak, I see that no accident has happened, which might endanger the health of the children.”

“No, oh no! thank God, they are quite well—­that is all I can say to you.”

“Did they go out alone?”

“I cannot answer you.”

“Has any one taken them away?”

“Alas, my dear! why ask me these questions?  I cannot answer you.”

“Will they come back here?”

“I do not know.”

Dagobert started up; his patience was once more exhausted.  But, after taking a few turns in the room, he again seated himself as before.

“After all,” said he to his wife, “you have no interest to conceal from me what is become of the children.  Why refuse to let me know?”