And while Adrienne, holding the little parcel in her hand looked at the Jesuit with astonishment, the latter laying his forefinger upon his lip, as if recommending silence, drew backward on tiptoe to the door, and went out after again pointing to Dagobert with a gesture of pity; while the soldier, in sullen dejection, with his head drooping, and his arms crossed upon his bosom, remained deaf to the sewing-girl’s earnest consolations.  When Rodin had left the room, Adrienne, approaching the soldier, said to him, in her mild voice, with an expression of deep interest, “Your sudden entry prevented my asking you a question that greatly concerns me.  How is your wound?”

“Thank you, madame,” said Dagobert, starting from his painful lethargy, “it is of no consequence, but I have not time to think of it.  I am sorry to have been so rough in your presence, and to have driven away that wretch; but ’tis more than I could master.  At sight of those people, my blood is all up.”

“And yet, believe me, you have been too hasty in your judgment.  The person who was just now here—­”

“Too hasty, madame!  I do not see him to-day for the first time.  He was with that renegade the Abbe d’Aigrigny—­”

“No doubt!—­and yet he is an honest and excellent man.”

“He!” cried Dagobert.

“Yes; for at this moment he is busy about only one thing restoring to you those dear children!”

“He!” repeated Dagobert, as if he could not believe what he heard.  “He restore me my children?”

“Yes; and sooner, perhaps, than you think for.”

“Madame,” said Dagobert, abruptly, “he deceives you.  You are the dupe of that old rascal.”

“No,” said Adrienne, shaking her head, with a smile.  “I have proofs of his good faith.  First of all, it is he who delivers me from this house.”

“Is it true?” said Dagobert, quite confounded.

“Very true; and here is, perhaps, something that will reconcile you to him,” said Adrienne, as she delivered the small parcel which Rodin had given her as he went out.  “Not wishing to exasperate you by his presence, he said to me:  `Give this to that brave soldier; it is my revenge.’”

Dagobert looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise, as he mechanically opened the little parcel.  When he had unfolded it, and discovered his own silver cross, black with age, and the old red, faded ribbon, treasures taken from him at the White Falcon Inn, at the same time as his papers, he exclaimed in a broken voice:  “My cross! my cross!  It is my cross!” In the excitement of his joy, he pressed the silver star to his gray moustache.

Adrienne and the other were deeply affected by the emotion of the old soldier, who continued, as he ran towards the door by which Rodin had gone out:  “Next to a service rendered to Marshal Simon, my wife, or son, nothing could be more precious to me.  And you answer for this worthy man, madame, and I have ill used him in your presence!  Oh! he is entitled to reparation, and he shall have it.”