“What abbe, mother?”

“Abbe d’Aigrigny.”

“True mother; before being a priest, he was a soldier he may be more accessible than others—­and yet—­”

“D’Aigrigny!” cried Dagobert, with an expression of hate and horror.  “There is then mixed up with these treasons, a man who was a soldier before being a priest, and whose name is D’Aigrigny?”

“Yes, father; the Marquis d’Aigrigny—­before the Restoration, in the service of Russia—­but, in 1815, the Bourbons gave him a regiment.”

“It is he!” said Dagobert, in a hollow voice.  “Always the same! like an evil spirit—­to the mother, father, children.”

“What do you mean, father?”

“The Marquis d’Aigrigny!” replied Dagobert.  “Do you know what is this man?  Before he was a priest, he was the murderer of Rose and Blanche’s mother, because she despised his love.  Before he was a priest, he fought against his country, and twice met General Simon face to face in war.  Yes; while the general was prisoner at Leipsic, covered with wounds at Waterloo, the turncoat marquis triumphed with the Russians and English!—­Under the Bourbons, this same renegade, loaded with honors, found himself once more face to face with the persecuted soldier of the empire.  Between them, this time, there was a mortal duel—­the marquis was wounded—­General Simon was proscribed, condemned, driven into exile.  The renegade, you say, has become a priest.  Well!  I am now certain, that it is he who has carried off Rose and Blanche, in order to wreak on them his hatred of their father and mother.  It is the infamous D’Aigrigny, who holds them in his power.  It is no longer the fortune of these children that I have to defend; it is their life—­do you hear what I say?—­their very life?”

“What, father! do you think this man capable—­”

“A traitor to his country, who finishes by becoming a mock priest, is capable of anything.  I tell you, that, perhaps at this moment he may be killing those children by a slow-fire!” exclaimed the soldier, in a voice of agony.  “To separate them from one another was to begin to kill them.  Yes!” added Dagobert, with an exasperation impossible to describe; “the daughters of Marshal Simon are in the power of the Marquis d’Aigrigny and his band, and I hesitate to attempt their rescue, for fear of the galleys!  The galleys!” added he, with a convulsive burst of laughter; “what do I care for the galleys?  Can they send a corpse there?  If this last attempt fail, shall I not have the right to blow my brains out?—­Put the iron in the fire, my boy—­quick! time presses—­and strike while the iron’s hot!”

“But your son goes with you!” exclaimed Frances, with a cry of maternal despair.  Then rising, she threw herself at the feet of Dagobert, and said:  “If you are arrested, he will be arrested also.”

“To escape the galleys, he will do as I do.  I have two pistols.”

“And without you—­without him,” cried the unhappy mother, extending her hands in supplication, “what will become of me?”