“Much I care for a porter’s gun and a gardener’s scythe!”

“Well, father; but listen to me a moment, I conjure you.  Suppose you knock, and the door is opened—­the porter will ask you what you want.’

“I tell him that I wish to speak to the superior, and so walk into the convent.”

“But, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch, “when once you have crossed the court-yard, you reach a second door, with a wicket.  A nun comes to it, to see who rings, and does not open the door till she knows the object of the visit.”

“I will tell her that I wish to see the lady superior.”

“Then, father, as you are not known in the convent, they will go and inform the superior.”

“Well, what then?”

“She will come down.”

“What next?”

“She will ask you what you want, M. Dagobert.”

“What I want?—­the devil! my children!”

“One minute’s patience, father.  You cannot doubt, from the precautions they have taken, that they wish to detain these young ladies against their will, and against yours.”

“Doubt!  I am sure of it.  To come to that point, they began by turning the head of my poor wife.”

“Then, father, the superior will reply to you that she does not know what you mean, and that the young ladies are not in the convent.”

“And I will reply to her, that they are in the convent witness—­Mother Bunch and Spoil-sport.”

“The superior will answer, that she does not know you; that she has no explanations to give you; and will close the wicket.”

“Then I break it open—­since one must come to that in the end—­so leave me alone, I tell you! ’sblood! leave me alone!”

“And, on this noise and violence, the porter will run and fetch the guard, and they will begin by arresting you.”

“And what will become of your poor children, then, M. Dagobert?” said Mother Bunch.

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.