“Little by little, however, as Gabriel has the best heart in the world, the vocation really came to him.  That was natural enough—­he was born to console those who suffer, and devote himself for the unfortunate.  He would never have spoken to me of the past, had it not been for this morning’s interview.  But then I beheld him, who is usually so mild and gentle, become indignant, exasperated, against M. Rodin and another person whom he accuses.  He had serious complaints against them already, but these discoveries, he says, will make up the measure.”

At these words of Frances, Dagobert pressed his hand to his forehead, as if to recall something to his memory.  For some minutes he had listened with surprise, and almost terror, to the account of these secret plots, conducted with such deep and crafty dissimulation.

Frances continued:  “When at last I acknowledged to Gabriel, that by the advice of Abbe Dubois, my confessor, I had delivered to a stranger the children confined to my husband—­General Simon’s daughters—­the dear boy blamed me, though with great regret, not for having wished to instruct the poor orphans in the truths of our holy religion, but for having acted without the consent of my husband, who alone was answerable before God and man for the charge entrusted to him.  Gabriel severely censured Abbe Dubois’ conduct, who had given me, he said, bad and perfidious counsels; and then, with the sweetness of an angel, the dear boy consoled me, and exhorted me to come and tell you all.  My poor husband! he would fain have accompanied me, for I had scarcely courage to come hither, so strongly did I feel the wrong I had done you; but, unfortunately, Gabriel is confined at the seminary by the strict order of his superiors; he could not come with me, and—­”

Here Dagobert, who seemed much agitated, abruptly interrupted his wife.  “One word, Frances,” said he; “for, in truth, in the midst of so many cares, and black, diabolical plots, one loses one’s memory, and the head begins to wander.  Didst not tell me, the day the children disappeared, that Gabriel, when taken in by you, had round his neck a bronze medal, and in his pocket a book filled with papers in a foreign language?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“And this medal and these papers were afterwards delivered to your confessor?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“And Gabriel never spoke of them since?”

“Never.”

Agricola, hearing this from his mother, looked at her with surprise, and exclaimed:  “Then Gabriel has the same interest as the daughters of General Simon, or Mdlle. de Cardoville, to be in the Rue Saint-Francois to-morrow?”

“Certainly,” said Dagobert.  “And now do you remember what he said to us, just after my arrival—­that, in a few days, he would need our support in a serious matter?”

“Yes, father.”

“And he is kept a prisoner at his seminary!  And he tells your mother that he has to complain of his superiors! and he asked us for our support with so sad and grave an air, that I said to him—­”