“On the contrary, supposing you would set great store by it, I intended to have the pleasure of delivering it myself.  I had brought it for that purpose; but, between ourselves, you gave me so warm a reception, that I had not the time—­”

“Sir,” said Dagobert, in confusion, “I assure you that I sincerely repent of what I have done.”

“I know it, my good friend; do not say another word about it.  You were then much attached to this cross?”

“Attached to it, sir!” cried Dagobert.  “Why, this cross,” and he kissed it as he spoke, “is my relic.  He from whom it came was my saint—­my hero—­and he had touched it with his hand!”

“Oh!” said Rodin, feigning to regard the cross with as much curiosity as respectful admiration; “did Napoleon—­the Great Napoleon—­indeed touch with his own hand—­that victorious hand!—­this noble star of honor?”

“Yes, sir, with his own hand.  He placed it there upon my bleeding breast, as a cure for my fifth wound.  So that, you see, were I dying of hunger, I think I should not hesitate betwixt bread and my cross—­that I might, in any case, have it on my heart in death.  But, enough—­enough! let us talk of something else.  It is foolish in an old soldier, is it not?” added Dagobert, drawing his hand across his eyes, and then, as if ashamed to deny what he really felt:  “Well, then! yes,” he resumed, raising his head proudly, and no longer seeking to conceal the tears that rolled down his cheek; “yes, I weep for joy, to have found my cross—­my cross, that the Emperor gave me with his victorious hand, as this worthy man has called it.”

“Then blessed be my poor old hand for having restored you the glorious treasure!” said Rodin, with emotion.  “In truth,” he added, “the day will be a good one for everybody—­as I announced to you this morning in my letter.”

“That letter without a signature?” asked the soldier, more and more astonished.  “Was it from you?”

“It was I who wrote it.  Only, fearing some new snare of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, I did not choose, you understand, to explain myself more clearly.”

“Then—­I shall see—­my orphans?”

Rodin nodded affirmatively, with an expression of great good-nature.

“Presently—­perhaps immediately,” said Adrienne, with smile.  “Well! was I right in telling you that you had not judged this gentleman fairly?”

“Why did he not tell me this when I came in?” cried Dagobert, almost beside himself with joy.

“There was one difficulty in the way, my good friend,” said Rodin; “it was, that when you came in, you nearly throttled me.”

“True; I was too hasty.  Once more, I ask your pardon.  But was I to blame?  I had only seen you with that Abbe d’Aigrigny, and in the first moment—­”

“This dear young lady,” said Rodin, bowing to Adrienne, “will tell you that I have been, without knowing it, the accomplice in many perfidious actions; but as soon as I began to see my way through the darkness, I quitted the evil course on which I had entered, and returned to that which is honest, just and true.”