“I cannot do otherwise.”

“I think you will change your opinion, when you know something that I am now forced to tell you.  Listen to me well!” added Dagobert, in an agitated voice; “if these children are not restored to me before the 13th of February—­a day close at hand—­I am in the position of a man that would rob the daughters of Marshal Simon—­rob them, d’ye understand?” said the soldier, becoming more and more agitated.  Then, with an accent of despair which pierced Frances’s heart, he continued:  “And yet I have done all that an honest man could do for those poor children—­you cannot tell what I have had to suffer on the road—­my cares, my anxieties—­I, a soldier, with the charge of two girls.  It was only by strength of heart, by devotion, that I could go through with it—­and when, for my reward, I hoped to be able to say to their father:  ‘Here are your children!—­’” The soldier paused.  To the violence of his first emotions had succeeded a mournful tenderness; he wept.

At sight of the tears rolling slowly down Dagobert’s gray moustache, Frances felt for a moment her resolution give way; but, recalling the oath which she had made to her confessor, and reflecting that the eternal salvation of the orphans was at stake, she reproached herself inwardly with this evil temptation, which would no doubt be severely blamed by Abbe Dubois.  She answered, therefore, in a trembling voice:  “How can they accuse you of robbing these children?”

“Know,” resumed Dagobert, drawing his hand across his eyes, “that if these young girls have braved so many dangers, to come hither, all the way from Siberia, it is that great interests are concerned—­perhaps an immense fortune—­and that, if they are not present on the 13th February—­here, in Paris, Rue Saint Francois—­all will be lost—­and through my fault—­for I am responsible for your actions.”

“The 13th February?  Rue Saint Francois?” cried Frances, looking at her husband with surprise.  “Like Gabriel!”

“What do you say about Gabriel?”

“When I took him in (poor deserted child!), he wore a bronze medal about his neck.”

“A bronze medal!” cried the soldier, struck with amazement; “a bronze medal with these words, ’At Paris you will be, the 13th of February, 1832, Rue Saint Francois?”

“Yes—­how do you know?”

“Gabriel, too!” said the soldier speaking to himself.  Then he added hastily:  “Does Gabriel know that this medal was found upon him?”

“I spoke to him of it at some time.  He had also about him a portfolio, filled with papers in a foreign tongue.  I gave them to Abbe Dubois, my confessor, to look over.  He told me afterwards, that they were of little consequence; and, at a later period, when a charitable person named M. Rodin, undertook the education of Gabriel, and to get him into the seminary, Abbe Dubois handed both papers and medal to him.  Since then, I have heard nothing of them.”