The courage of Frances was fast failing.  These pressing and reiterated questions, which might end by the discovery of the truth, made her endure a thousand slow and poignant tortures.  She preferred coming at once to the point, and determined to bear the full weight of her husband’s anger, like a humble and resigned victim, obstinately faithful to the promise she had sworn to her confessor.

Not having the strength to rise, she bowed her head, allowed her arms to fall on either side of the chair, and said to her husband in a tone of the deepest despondency:  “Do with me what you will—­but do not ask what is become of the children—­I cannot answer you.”

If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of the soldier, he would not have been more violently, more deeply moved; he became deadly pale; his bald forehead was covered with cold sweat; with fixed and staring look, he remained for some moments motionless, mute, and petrified.  Then, as if roused with a start from this momentary torpor, and filled with a terrific energy, he seized his wife by the shoulders, lifted her like a feather, placed her on her feet before him, and, leaning over her, exclaimed in a tone of mingled fury and despair:  “The children!”

“Mercy! mercy!” gasped Frances, in a faint voice.

“Where are the children?” repeated Dagobert, as he shook with his powerful hands that poor frail body, and added in a voice of thunder:  “Will you answer? the children!”

“Kill me, or forgive me, I cannot answer you,” replied the unhappy woman, with that inflexible, yet mild obstinacy, peculiar to timid characters, when they act from convictions of doing right.

“Wretch!” cried the soldier; wild with rage, grief, despair, he lifted up his wife as if he would have dashed her upon the floor—­but he was too brave a man to commit such cowardly cruelty, and, after that first burst of involuntary fury, he let her go.

Overpowered, Frances sank upon her knees, clasped her hands, and, by the faint motion of her lips, it was clear that she was praying.  Dagobert had then a moment of stunning giddiness; his thoughts wandered; what had just happened was so sudden, so incomprehensible that it required some minutes to convince himself that his wife (that angel of goodness, whose life had been one course of heroic self-devotion, and who knew what the daughters of Marshal Simon were to him) should say to him:  “Do not ask me about them—­I cannot answer you.”

The firmest, the strongest mind would have been shaken by this inexplicable fact.  But, when the soldier had a little recovered himself, he began to look coolly at the circumstances, and reasoned thus sensibly with himself:  “My wife alone can explain to me this inconceivable mystery—­I do not mean either to beat or kill her—­let us try every possibly method, therefore, to induce her to speak, and above all, let me try to control myself.”

He took a chair, handed another to his wife, who was still on her knees, and said to her:  “Sit down.”  With an air of the utmost dejection, Frances obeyed.