“By this time, madame, I hope he has obtained his freedom; thanks to the generosity of one of his comrades.  His father went yesterday to offer bail for him, and they promised that he should be released to-day.  But, from his prison, he wrote to me, that he had something of importance to reveal to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes, madame.  Should Agricola be released immediately by what means can he communicate with you?”

“He has secrets to tell me!” resumed Mdlle. de Cardoville, with an air of thoughtful surprise.  “I seek in vain to imagine what they can be; but so long as I am confined in this house, and secluded from every one, M. Agricola must not think of addressing himself directly or indirectly to me.  He must wait till I am at liberty; but that is not all, he must deliver from that convent two poor children, who are much more to be pitied than I am.  The daughters of Marshal Simon are detained there against their will.”

“You know their name, madame?”

“When M. Agricola informed me of their arrival in Paris, he told me they were fifteen years old, and that they resembled each other exactly—­so that, the day before yesterday, when I took my accustomed walk, and observed two poor little weeping faces come close to the windows of their separate cells, one on the ground floor, the other on the first story, a secret presentiment told me that I saw in them the orphans of whom M. Agricola had spoken, and in whom I already took a lively interest, as being my relations.”

“They are your relations, madame, then?”

“Yes, certainly.  So, not being able to do more, I tried to express by signs how much I felt for them.  Their tears, and the sadness of their charming faces, sufficiently told me that they were prisoners in the convent, as I am myself in this house.”

“Oh!  I understand, madame—­the victim of the animosity of your family?”

“Whatever may be my fate, I am much less to be pitied than these two children, whose despair is really alarming.  Their separation is what chiefly oppresses them.  By some words that one of them just now said to me, I see that they are, like me, the victims of an odious machination.  But thanks to you, it will be possible to save them:  Since I have been in this house I have had no communication with any one; they have not allowed me pen or paper, so it is impossible to write.  Now listen to me attentively, and we shall be able to defeat an odious persecution.”

“Oh, speak! speak, madame!”

“The soldier, who brought these orphans to France, the father of M. Agricola, is still in town?”

“Yes, madame.  Oh! if you only knew his fury, his despair, when, on his return home, he no longer found the children that a dying mother had confided to him!”

“He must take care not to act with the least violence.  It would ruin all.  Take this ring,” said Adrienne, drawing it from her finger, “and give it to him.  He must go instantly—­are you sure that you can remember a name and address?”