“Yes, sir.”

“What have you to say in your justification?”

“But, sir,” cried Dagobert, “it is not my wife that I accuse—­I do not mean that; it is her confessor.”

“Sir, you have applied to a magistrate; and the magistrate must act as he thinks best for the discovery of the truth.  Once more, madame,” he resumed, addressing Frances, “what have you to say in your justification?”

“Alas! nothing, sir.”

“Is it true that your husband left these young girls in your charge when he went out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it true that, on his return, they were no longer to be found?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it true that, when he asked you where they were, you told him that you could give him no information on the subject?”

The commissary appeared to wait for Frances’ reply with kind of anxious curiosity.

“Yes, sir,” said she, with the utmost simplicity, “that was the answer I made my husband.”

“What, madame!” said the magistrate, with an air of painful astonishment; “that was your only answer to all the prayers and commands of your husband?  What! you refused to give him the least information?  It is neither probable nor possible.”

“It is the truth, sir.”

“Well, but, after all, madame, what have you done with the young ladies that were entrusted to your care?”

“I can tell you nothing about it, sir.  If I would not answer my poor husband, I certainly will not answer any one else.”

“Well, sir,” resumed Dagobert, “was I wrong?  An honest, excellent woman like that, who was always full of good sense and affection, to talk in this way—­is it natural?  I repeat to you, sir that it is the work of her confessor; act against him promptly and decidedly, we shall soon know all, and my poor children will be restored to me.”

“Madame,” continued the commissary, without being able to repress a certain degree of emotion, “I am about to speak to you very severely.  My duty obliges me to do so.  This affair becomes so serious and complicated, that I must instantly commence judicial proceedings on the subject.  You acknowledge that these young ladies have been left in your charge, and that you cannot produce them.  Now, listen to me:  if you refuse to give any explanation in the matter, it is you alone that will be accused of their disappearance.  I shall be obliged, though with great regret, to take you into custody.”

“Me!” cried Frances, with the utmost alarm.

“Her!” exclaimed Dagobert; “never!  It is her confessor that I accuse, not my poor wife.  Take her into custody, indeed!” He ran towards her, as if he would protect her.

“It is too late, sir,” said the commissary.  “You have made your charge for the abduction of these two young ladies.  According to your wife’s own declaration, she alone is compromised up to this point.  I must take her before the Public Prosecutor, who will decide what course to pursue.”