Agricola’s father had too much good sense not to feel the truth of these observations of the girl and his son; but he knew also, that, cost what it might, the orphans must be delivered before the morrow.  The alternative was terrible—­so terrible, that, pressing his two hands to his burning forehead, Dagobert sunk back upon a stone bench, as if struck down by the inexorable fatality of the dilemma.

Agricola and the workwoman, deeply moved by this mute despair, exchanged a sad look.  The smith, seating himself beside the soldier, said to him:  “Do not be down-hearted, father.  Remember what’s been told you.  By going with this ring of Mdlle. de Cardoville’s to the influential gentleman she named, the young ladies may be free by to-morrow, or, at worst, by the day after.”

“Blood and thunder! you want to drive me mad!” exclaimed Dagobert, starting up from the bench, and looking at Mother Bunch and his son with so savage an expression that Agricola and the sempstress drew back, with an air of surprise and uneasiness.

“Pardon me, my children!” said Dagobert, recovering himself after a long silence.  “I am wrong to get in a passion, for we do not understand one another.  What you say is true; and yet I am right to speak as I do.  Listen to me.  You are an honest man, Agricola; you an honest girl; what I tell you is meant for you alone.  I have brought these children from the depths of Siberia—­do you know why?  That they may be to-morrow morning in the Rue Saint-Francois.  If they are not there, I have failed to execute the last wish of their dying mother.”

“No. 3, Rue Saint Francois?” cried Agricola, interrupting his father.

“Yes; how do you know the number?” said Dagobert.

“Is not the date inscribed on a bronze medal?”

“Yes,” replied Dagobert, more end more surprised; “who told you?”

“One instant, father!” exclaimed Agricola; “let me reflect.  I think I guess it.  Did you not tell me, my good sister, that Mdlle. de Cardoville was not mad?”

“Not mad.  They detain her in this asylum to prevent her communicating with any one.  She believes herself, like the daughters of Marshal Simon, the victim of an odious machination.”

“No doubt of it,” cried the smith.  “I understand all now, Mdlle. de Cardoville has the same interest as the orphans to appear to-morrow at the Rue Saint-Francois.  But she does not perhaps know it.”

“How so?”

“One word more, my good girl.  Did Mdlle. de Cardoville tell you that she had a powerful motive to obtain her freedom by to-morrow?”

“No; for when she gave me this ring for the Count de Montbron, she said to me:  ’By this means both I and Marshal Simon’s daughters will be at liberty either to-morrow or the day after—­’”

“But explain yourself, then,” said Dagobert to his son, with impatience.

“Just now,” replied the smith, “when you came to seek me in prison, I told you, father, that I had a sacred duty to perform, and that I would rejoin you at home.”