“Yes!” continued the other; “yes! it may be base and ungrateful—­but no matter!—­Twenty times I have felt jealous of the affectionate confidence which my children display towards you, while with me they seem always to be in fear.  If their melancholy faces ever grow animated for a moment, it is in talking to you, in seeing you; while for me they have nothing but cold respect—­and that kills me.  Sure of the affection of my children, I would have braved and surmounted every difficulty—­” Then, seeing that Dagobert rushed towards the door which led to the chamber of Rose and Blanche, the marshal asked:  “Where are you going?”

“For your daughters, general.”

“What for?”

“To bring them face to face with you—­to tell them:  ’My children, your father thinks that you do not love him.’—­I will only say that—­and then you will see.”

“Dagobert!  I forbid you to do it,” cried the marshal, hastily.

“I don’t care for that—­you have no right to be unjust to the poor children,” said the soldier, as he again advanced towards the door.

“Dagobert, I command you to remain here,” cried the marshal.

“Listen to me, general.  I am your soldier, your inferior, your servant, if you will,” said the old grenadier, roughly; “but neither rank nor station shall keep me silent, when I have to defend your daughters.  All must be explained—­I know but one way—­and that is to bring honest people face to face.”

If the marshal had not seized him by the arm, Dagobert would have entered the apartment of the young girls.

“Remain!” said the marshal, so imperiously that the soldier, accustomed to obedience, hung his head, and stood still.

“What would you do?” resumed the marshal.  “Tell my children, that I think they do not love me? induce them to affect a tenderness they do not feel—­when it is not their fault, but mine?”

“Oh, general!” said Dagobert, in a tone of despair, “I no longer feel anger, in hearing you speak thus of your children.  It is such grief, that it breaks my heart!”

Touched by the expression of the soldier’s countenance, the marshal continued, less abruptly:  “Come, I may be wrong; and yet I ask you, without bitterness or jealousy, are not my children more confiding, more familiar, with you than with me?”

“God bless me, general!” cried Dagobert; “if you come to that, they are more familiar with Spoil-sport than with either of us.  You are their father; and, however kind a father may be, he must always command some respect.  Familiar with me!  I should think so.  A fine story!  What the devil should they respect in me, who, except that I am six feet high, and wear a moustache, might pass for the old woman that nursed them?—­and then I must say, that, even before the death of your worthy father, you were sad and full of thought; the children have remarked that; and what you take for coldness on their part, is, I am sure, anxiety for you.  Come, general; you are not just.  You complain, because they love you too much.”