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“You see it forms a cross.”

“What could it mean, Dagobert?”

“Chance, perhaps—­yes, chance—­and yet, in spite of myself, this confounded cross left behind him struck me as a bad omen, for hardly was he gone when misfortune after misfortune fell upon us.”

“Alas! the death of our mother!”

“Yes—­but, before that, another piece of ill-luck.  You had not yet returned, and she was writing her petition to ask leave to go to France or to send you there, when I heard the gallop of a horse.  It was a courier from the governor general of Siberia.  He brought us orders to change our residence; within three days we were to join other condemned persons, and be removed with them four hundred leagues further north.  Thus, after fifteen years of exile, they redoubled in cruelty towards your mother.”

“Why did they thus torment her?”

“One would think that some evil genius was at work against her.  A few days later, the traveller would no longer have found us at Milosk; and if he had joined us further on, it would have been too far for the medal and papers to be of use—­since, having set out almost immediately, we shall hardly arrive in time at Paris.  ’If they had some interest to prevent me and my children from going to France,’ said your mother, ’they would act just as they have done.  To banish us four hundred leagues further, is to render impossible this journey, of which the term is fixed.’  And the idea overwhelmed her with grief.”

“Perhaps it was this unexpected sorrow that was the cause of her sudden illness.”

“Alas! no, my children; it was that infernal cholera, who arrives without giving you notice—­for he too is a great traveller—­and strikes you down like a thunderbolt.  Three hours after the traveller had left us, when you returned quite pleased and gay from the forest, with your large bunches of wild-flowers for your mother, she was already in the last agony, and hardly to be recognized.  The cholera had broken out in the village, and that evening five persons died of it.  Your mother had only time to hang the medal about your neck, my dear little Rose, to recommend you both to my care, and to beg that we should set out immediately.  When she was gone, the new order of exile could not apply to you; and I obtained permission from the governor to take my departure with you for France, according to the last wishes—­”

The soldier could not finish the sentence; he covered his eyes with his hand, whilst the orphans embraced him sobbing.

“Oh! but,” resumed Dagobert, with pride, after a moment of painful silence, “it was then that you showed yourselves the brave daughters of the general.  Notwithstanding the danger, it was impossible to tear you from your mother’s bedside; you remained with her to the last, you closed her eyes, you watched there all night, and you would not leave the village till you had seen me plant the little wooden cross over the grave I had dug for her.”