“And what could these letters contain, father?”

“I did not venture to ask him, he appeared so miserable and dejected.”

“But thus harassed and tormented incessantly, the marshal must lead a wretched life.”

“And his poor little girls too! he sees them grow sadder and sadder, without being able to guess the cause.  And the death of his father, killed almost in his arms!  Perhaps, you will think all this enough; but, no!  I am sure there is something still more painful behind.  Lately, you would hardly know the marshal.  He is irritable about nothing, and falls into such fits of passion, that—­” After a moment’s hesitation, the soldier resumed:  “I way tell this to you, my poor boy.  I have just been upstairs, to take the caps from his pistols.”

“What, father!” cried Agricola; “you fear—­”

“In the state of exasperation in which I saw him yesterday, there is everything to fear.”

“What then happened?”

“Since some time, he has often long secret interviews with a gentleman, who looks like an old soldier and a worthy man.  I have remarked that the gloom and agitation of the marshal are always redoubled after one of these visits.  Two or three times, I have spoken to him about it; but I saw by his look, that I displeased him, and therefore I desisted.

“Well! yesterday, this gentleman came in the evening.  He remained here until eleven o’clock, and his wife came to fetch him, and waited for him in a coach.  After his departure, I went up to see if the marshal wanted anything.  He was very pale, but calm; he thanked me, and I came down again.  You know that my room is just under his.  I could hear the marshal walking about as if much agitated, and soon after he seemed to be knocking down the furniture.  In alarm, I once more went upstairs.  He asked me, with an irritated air, what I wanted, and ordered me to leave the room.  Seeing him in that way, I remained; he grew more angry, still I remained; perceiving a chair and table thrown down, I pointed to them with so sad an air that he understood me.  You know that he has the best heart in the world, so, taking me by the hand, he said to me:  ’Forgive me for causing you this uneasiness, my good Dagobert; but just now, I lost my senses, and gave way to a burst of absurd fury; I think I should have thrown myself out of the window, had it been open.  I only hope, that my poor dear girls have not heard me,’ added he, as he went on tip-toe to open the door which communicates with his daughters’ bedroom.  When he had listened anxiously for a moment, he returned to me, and said:  ’Luckily, they are asleep.’—­Then I asked him what was the cause of his agitation, and if, in spite of my precautions, he had received any more anonymous letters.  ‘No,’ replied he, with a gloomy air; ’but leave me, my friend.  I am now better.  It has done me good to see you.  Good—­night, old comrade! go downstairs to bed.’—­I took care not to contradict