“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?”

“Oh! yes, madame.  Be satisfied on that point.  Agricola only mentioned your name once, and I have not forgotten it.  There is a memory of the heart.”

“I perceive it, my dear girl.  Remember, then, the name of the Count de Montbron.”

“The Count de Montbron—­I shall not forget.”

“He is one of my good old friends, and lives on the Place Vendome, No. 7.”

“Place Vendome, No. 7—­I shall remember.”

“M.  Agricola’s father must go to him this evening, and, if he is not at home, wait for his coming in.  He must ask to speak to him, as if from me, and send him this ring as a proof of what he says.  Once with him, he must tell him all—­the abduction of the girls, the name of the convent where they are confined, and my own detention as a lunatic in the asylum of Dr. Baleinier.  Truth has an accent of its own, which M. de Montbron will recognize.  He is a man of much experience and judgment, and possessed of great influence.  He will immediately take the necessary steps, and to-morrow, or the day after, these poor orphans and myself will be restored to liberty—­all thanks to you!  But moments are precious; we might be discovered; make haste, dear child!”