Dagobert struck a few sparks, obtained a light, and saw that the window was indeed open, the table thrown down, and the lamp lying by the side of the knapsack.  He shut the window, set the little table on its feet again, placed the knapsack upon it, and began to unbuckle this last in order to take out his portfolio, which had been deposited along with his cross and purse, in a kind of pocket between the outside and the lining.  The straps had been readjusted with so much care, that there was no appearance of the knapsack having been disturbed; but when the soldier plunged his hand into the pocket above-mentioned, he found it empty.  Struck with consternation, he grew pale, and retreated a step, crying:  “How is this?—­Nothing!”

“What is the matter?” said Blanche.  He made her no answer.  Motionless, he leaned against the table, with his hand still buried in the pocket.  Then, yielding to a vague hope—­for so cruel a reality did not appear possible—­he hastily emptied the contents of the knapsack on the table—­his poor half-worn clothes—­his old uniform-coat of the horse-grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, a sacred relic for the soldiers—­but, turn and return them as he would, he found neither his purse, nor the portfolio that contained his papers, the letters of General Simon, and his cross.

In vain, with that serious childishness which always accompanies a hopeless search, he took the knapsack by the two ends, and shook it vigorously; nothing came out.  The orphans looked on with uneasiness, not understanding his silence or his movements, for his back was turned to them.  Blanche ventured to say to him in a timid voice:  “What ails you—­you don’t answer us.—­What is it you are looking for in your knapsack?”

Still mute, Dagobert searched his own person, turned out all his pockets—­nothing!—­For the first time in his life, perhaps, his two children, as he called them, had spoken to him without receiving a reply.  Blanche and Rose felt the big tears start into their eyes; thinking that the soldier was angry, they darst not again address him.

“No, no! it is impossible—­no!” said the veteran, pressing his hand to his forehead, and seeking in his memory where he might have put those precious objects, the loss of which he could not yet bring himself to believe.  A sudden beam of joy flashed from his eyes.  He ran to a chair, and took from it the portmanteau of the orphans; it contained a little linen, two black dresses, and a small box of white wood, in which were a silk handkerchief that had belonged to their mother, two locks of her hair, and a black ribbon she had worn round her neck.  The little she possessed had been seized by the Russian government, in pursuance of the confiscation.  Dagobert searched and researched every article—­peeped into all the corners of the portmanteau—­still nothing!