Without exaggerating the virtue of promise-keeping in the honest and laborious poor, we feel certain, that an engagement taken by the accused to appear on the day of trial would be always fulfilled, not only with fidelity, but with the warmest gratitude—­for his family would not have suffered by his absence, thanks to the indulgence of the law.

There is also another fact, of which France may well be proud.  It is, that her magistrates (although miserably paid as the army itself) are generally wise, upright, humane, and independent; they have the true feeling of their own useful and sacred mission; they know how to appreciate the wants and distresses of the working classes, with whom they are so often brought in contact; to them might be safely granted the power of fixing those cases in which a moral security, the only one that can be given by the honest and necessitous man, should be received as sufficient.[10]

Finally, if those who make the laws have so low an opinion of the people as to reject with disdain the suggestions we have ventured to throw out, let them at least so reduce the minimum of bail, as to render it available for those who have most need to escape the fruitless rigors of imprisonment.  Let them take as their lowest limit, the month’s wages of an artisan—­say eighty francs.

This sum would still be exorbitant; but, with the aid of friends, the pawnbroker’s, and some little advances, eighty francs might perhaps be found—­not always, it is true—­but still sometimes—­and, at all events, many families would be rescued from frightful misery.

Having made these observations, let us return to Dagobert’s family, who, in consequence of the preventive arrest of Agricola, were now reduced to an almost hopeless state.

The anguish of Dagobert’s wife increased, the more she reflected on her situation, for, including the marshal’s daughters, four persons were left absolutely without resource.  It must be confessed, however, that the excellent mother thought less of herself, than of the grief which her son must feel in thinking over her deplorable position.

At this moment there was a knock at the door.

“Who is there?” said Frances.

“It is me—­Father Loriot.”

“Come in,” said Dagobert’s wife.

The dyer, who also performed the functions of a porter, appeared at the door of the room.  This time, his arms were no longer of a bright apple green, but of a magnificent violet.

“Mrs. Baudoin,” said Father Loriot, “here is a letter that the giver of holy water at Saint Merely’s has just brought from Abbe Dubois, with a request that I would bring it up to you immediately, as it is very pressing.”

“A letter from my confessor?” said Frances, in astonishment; and, as she took it, added:  “Thank you, Father Loriot.”

“You do not want anything?”

“No, Father Loriot.”

“My respects to the ladies!” and the dyer went out.