“But this medal,” said Dagobert, “is exactly like that possessed by the daughter of Marshal Simon.  How can you account for that?”

“Nothing so plain, father.  Mdlle. de Cardoville is their relation.  I remember now, that she told me so.”

“A relation of Rose and Blanche?”

“Yes,” added Mother Bunch; “she told that also to me just now.”

“Well, then,” resumed Dagobert, looking anxiously at his son, “do you now understand why I must have my children this very day?  Do you now understand, as their poor mother told me on her death-bed, that one day’s delay might ruin all?  Do you now see that I cannot be satisfied with a perhaps to-morrow, when I have come all the way from Siberia, only, that those children might be to-morrow in the Rue Saint-Francois?  Do you at last perceive that I must have them this night, even if I have to set fire to the convent?”

“But, father, if you employ violence—­”

“Zounds! do you know what the commissary of police answered me this morning, when I went to renew my charge against your mother’s confessor?  He said to me that there was no proof, and that they could do nothing.”

“But now there is proof, father, for at least we know where the young girls are.  With that certainty we shall be strong.  The law is more powerful than all the superiors of convents in the world.”

“And the Count de Montbron, to whom Mdlle. de Cardoville begs you to apply,” said Mother Bunch, “is a man of influence.  Tell him the reasons that make it so important for these young ladies, as well as Mdlle. de Cardoville, to be at liberty this evening and he will certainly hasten the course of justice, and to-night your children will be restored to you.”

“Sister is in the right, father.  Go to the Count.  Meanwhile, I will run to the commissary, and tell him that we now know where the young girls are confined.  Do you go home, and wait for us, my good girl.  We will meet at our own house!”

Dagobert had remained plunged in thought; suddenly, he said to Agricola:  “Be it so.  I will follow your counsel.  But suppose the commissary says to you:  ’We cannot act before to-morrow’—­suppose the Count de Montbron says to me the same thing—­do not think I shall stand with my arms folded until the morning.”

“But, father—­”

“It is enough,” resumed the soldier in an abrupt voice:  “I have made up my mind.  Run to the commissary, my boy; wait for us at home, my good girl; I will go to the Count.  Give me the ring.  Now for the address!”

“The Count de Montbron, No. 7, Place Vendome,” said she; “you come on behalf of Mdlle. de Cardoville.”

“I have a good memory,” answered the soldier.  “We will meet as soon as possible in the Rue Brise-Miche.”

“Yes, father; have good courage.  You will see that the law protects and defends honest people.”

“So much the better,” said the soldier; “because, otherwise, honest people would be obliged to protect and defend themselves.  Farewell, my children! we will meet soon in the Rue Brise-Miche.”