The weather, damp and foggy during a portion of the night, became clear
and cold towards morning. Through the glazed skylight of Agricola’s
garret, where he lay with his father, a corner of the blue sky could be
seen.
The apartment of the young blacksmith had an aspect as poor as the
sewing-girl’s. For its sole ornament, over the deal table upon which
Agricola wrote his poetical inspirations, there hung suspended from a
nail in the wall a portrait of Beranger--that immortal poet whom the
people revere and cherish, because his rare and transcendent genius has
delighted to enlighten the people, and to sing their glories and their
reverses.
Although the day had only begun to dawn, Dagobert and Agricola had
already risen. The latter had sufficient self command to conceal his
inquietude, for renewed reflection had again increased his fears.
The recent outbreak in the Rue des Prouvaires had caused a great number
of precautionary arrests; and the discovery of numerous copies
of Agricola’s song, in the possession of one of the chiefs of the
disconcerted plot, was, in truth, calculated slightly to compromise the
young blacksmith. His father, however, as we have already mentioned,
suspected not his secret anguish. Seated by the side of his son, upon
the edge of their mean little bed, the old soldier, by break of day,
had dressed and shaved with military care; he now held between his hands
both those of Agricola, his countenance radiant with joy, and unable to
discontinue the contemplation of his boy.
“You will laugh at me, my dear boy,” said Dagobert to his son; “but I
wished the night to the devil, in order that I might gaze upon you in
full day, as I now see you. But all in good time; I have lost nothing.
Here is another silliness of mine; it delights me to see you wear
moustaches. What a splendid horse-grenadier you would have made! Tell
me; have you never had a wish to be a soldier?”
“I thought of mother!”
“That’s right,” said Dagobert: “and besides, I believe, after all, look
ye, that the time of the sword has gone by. We old fellows are now good
for nothing, but to be put in a corner of the chimney. Like rusty old
carbines, we have had our day.”
“Yes; your days of heroism and of glory,” said Agricola with excitement;
and then he added, with a voice profoundly softened and agitated, “it is
something good and cheering to be your son!”
“As to the good, I know nothing of that,” replied Dagobert; “but as for
the cheering, it ought to be so; for I love you proudly. And I think
this is but the beginning! What say you, Agricola? I am like the
famished wretches who have been some days without food. It is but by
little and little that they recover themselves, and can eat. Now, you
may expect to be tasted, my boy, morning and evening, and devoured
during the day. No, I wish not to think that--not all the day--no, that
thought dazzles and perplexes me; and I am no longer myself.”
These words of Dagobert caused a painful feeling to Agricola. He
believed that they sprang from a presentiment of the separation with
which he was menaced.
“Well,” continued Dagobert; “you are quite happy; M. Hardy is always
good to you.”
“Oh!” replied Agricola: “there is none in the world better, or more
equitable and generous! If you knew what wonders he has brought about
in his factory! Compared to all others, it is a paradise beside the
stithies of Lucifer!”
“Indeed!” said Dagobert.
“You shall see,” resumed Agricola, “what welfare, what joy, what
affection, are displayed upon the countenances of all whom he employs;
who work with an ardent pleasure.
“This M. Hardy of yours must be an out-and-out magician,” said Dagobert.
“He is, father, a very great magician. He has known how to render labor
pleasant and attractive. As for the pleasure, over and above good wages,
he accords to us a portion of his profits according to our deserts;
whence you may judge of the eagerness with which we go to work. And that
is not all: he has caused large, handsome buildings to be erected, in
which all his workpeople find, at less expense than elsewhere, cheerful
and salubrious lodgings, in which they enjoy all the advantages of an
association. But you shall see--I repeat--you shall see!”
“They have good reason to say, that Paris is the region of wonders,”
observed Dagobert.
“Well, behold me here again at last, never more to quit you, nor good
mother!”
“No, father, we will never separate again,” said Agricola, stifling a
sigh. “My mother and I will both try to make you forget all that you
have suffered.”
“Suffered!” exclaimed Dagobert, “who the deuce has suffered? Look me
well in the face; and see if I have a look of suffering! Bombs and
bayonets! Since I have put my foot here, I feel myself quite a young man
again! You shall see me march soon: I bet that I tire you out! You must
rig yourself up something extra! Lord, how they will stare at us! I
wager that in beholding your black moustache and my gray one, folks will
say, behold father and son! But let us settle what we are to do with the
day. You will write to the father of Marshal Simon, informing him the
his grand-daughters have arrived, and that it is necessary that he
should hasten his return to Paris; for he has charged himself with
matters which are of great importance for them. While you are writing,
I will go down to say good-morning to my wife, and to the dear little
ones. We will then eat a morsel. Your mother will go to mass; for I
perceive that she likes to be regular at that: the good soul! no great
harm, if it amuse her! and during her absence, we will make a raid
together.”
“Father,” said Agricola, with embarrassment, “this morning it is out of
my power to accompany you.”
“How! out of your power?” said Dagobert; “recollect this is Monday!”
“Yes, father,” said Agricola, hesitatingly; “but I have promised to
attend all the morning in the workshop, to finish a job that is required
in a hurry. If I fail to do so, I shall inflict some injury upon M.
Hardy. But I’ll soon be at liberty.”
“That alters the case,” said Dagobert, with a sigh of regret. “I thought
to make my first parade through Paris with you this morning; but it must
be deferred in favor of your work. It is sacred: since it is that which
sustains your mother. Nevertheless, it is vexatious, devilish vexatious.
And yet no--I am unjust. See how quickly one gets habituated to and
spoilt by happiness. I growl like a true grumbler, at a walk being put
off for a few hours! I do this! I who, during eighteen years, have only
hoped to see you once more, without daring to reckon very much upon
it! Oh! I am but a silly old fool! Vive l’amour et cogni--I mean--my
Agricola!” And, to console himself, the old soldier gayly slapped his
son’s shoulder.
This seemed another omen of evil to the blacksmith; for he dreaded one
moment to another lest the fears of Mother Bunch should be realized.
“Now that I have recovered myself,” said Dagobert, laughing, “let
us speak of business. Know you where I find the addresses of all the
notaries in Paris?”
“I don’t know; but nothing is more easy than to discover it.”
“My reason is,” resumed Dagobert, “that I sent from Russia by post, and
by order of the mother of the two children that I have brought here,
some important papers to a Parisian notary. As it was my duty to see
this notary immediately upon my arrival, I had written his name and his
address in a portfolio, of which however, I have been robbed during my
journey; and as I have forgotten his devil of a name, it seems to me,
that if I should see it again in the list of notaries, I might recollect
it.”
Two knocks at the door of the garret made Agricola start. He
involuntarily thought of a warrant for his apprehension.
His father, who, at the sound of the knocking turned round his head, had
not perceived his emotion, and said with a loud voice: “Come in!” The
door opened. It was Gabriel. He wore a black cassock and a broad brimmed
hat.
To recognize his brother by adoption, and to throw himself into his
arms, were two movements performed at once by Agricola--as quick as
thought.--“My brother!” exclaimed Agricola.
“Agricola!” cried Gabriel.
“Gabriel!” responded the blacksmith.
“After so long an absence!” said the one.
“To behold you again!” rejoined the other.
Such were the words exchanged between the blacksmith and the missionary,
while they were locked in a close embrace.
Dagobert, moved and charmed by these fraternal endearments, felt his
eyes become moist. There was something truly touching in the affection
of the young men--in their hearts so much alike, and yet of characters
and aspects so very different--for the manly countenance of Agricola
contrasted strongly with the delicacy and angelic physiognomy of
Gabriel.
“I was forewarned by my father of your arrival,” said the blacksmith at
length. “I have been expecting to see you; and my happiness has been
a hundred times the greater, because I have had all the pleasures of
hoping for it.”
“And my good mother?” asked Gabriel, in affectionately grasping the
hands of Dagobert. “I trust that you have found her in good health.”
“Yes, my brave boy!” replied Dagobert; “and her health will have become
a hundred times better, now that we are all together. Nothing is so
healthful as joy.” Then addressing himself to Agricola, who, forgetting
his fear of being arrested, regarded the missionary with an expression
of ineffable affection, Dagobert added:
“Let it be remembered, that, with the soft cheek of a young girl,
Gabriel has the courage of a lion; I have already told with what
intrepidity he saved the lives of Marshal Simon’s daughters, and tried
to save mine also.”
“But, Gabriel! what has happened to your forehead?” suddenly exclaimed
Agricola, who for a few seconds had been attentively examining the
missionary.
Gabriel, having thrown aside his hat on entering, was now directly
beneath the skylight of the garret apartment, the bright light through
which shone upon his sweet, pale countenance: and the round scar,
which extended from one eyebrow to the other, was therefore distinctly
visible.
In the midst of the powerful and diversified emotion, and of the
exciting events which so rapidly followed the shipwreck on the rocky
coast near Cardoville House, Dagobert, during the short interview he
then had with Gabriel, had not perceived the scar which seamed the
forehead of the young missionary. Now, partaking, however, of the
surprise of his son, Dagobert said:
“Aye, indeed! how came this scar upon your brow?”
“And on his hands, too; see, dear father!” exclaimed the blacksmith,
with renewed surprise, while he seized one of the hands which the young
priest held out towards him in order to tranquillize his fears.
“Gabriel, my brave boy, explain this to us!” added Dagobert; “who
has wounded you thus?” and in his turn, taking the other hand of the
missionary, he examined the scar upon it with the eye of a judge of
wounds, and then added, “In Spain, one of my comrades was found and
taken down alive from a cross, erected at the junction of several roads,
upon which the monks had crucified, and left him to die of hunger,
thirst, and agony. Ever afterwards he bore scars upon his hands, exactly
similar to this upon your hand.”
“My father is right!” exclaimed Agricola. “It is evident that your
hands have been pierced through! My poor brother!” and Agricola became
grievously agitated.
“Do not think about it,” said Gabriel, reddening with the embarrassment
of modesty. “Having gone as a missionary amongst the savages of the
Rocky Mountains, they crucified me, and they had begun to scalp me, when
Providence snatched me from their hands.”
“Unfortunate youth,” said Dagobert; “without arms then? You had not a
sufficient escort for your protection?”
“It is not for such as me to carry arms.” said Gabriel, sweetly smiling;
“and we are never accompanied by any escort.”
“Well, but your companions, those who were along with you, how came it
that they did not defend you?” impetuously asked Agricola.
“I was alone, my dear brother.”
“Alone!”
“Yes, alone; without even a guide.”
“You alone! unarmed! in a barbarous country!” exclaimed Dagobert,
scarcely crediting a step so unmilitary, and almost distrusting his own
sense of hearing.
“It was sublime!” said the young blacksmith and poet.
“The Christian faith,” said Gabriel, with mild simplicity, “cannot be
implanted by force or violence. It is only by the power of persuasion
that the gospel can be spread amongst poor savages.”
“But when persuasions fail!” said Agricola.
“Why, then, dear brother, one has but to die for the belief that is
in him, pitying those who have rejected it, and who have refused the
blessings it offers to mankind.”
There was a period of profound silence after the reply of Gabriel, which
was uttered with simple and touching pathos.
Dagobert was in his own nature too courageous not to comprehend a
heroism thus calm and resigned; and the old soldier, as well as his
son, now contemplated Gabriel with the most earnest feelings of mingled
admiration and respect.
Gabriel, entirely free from the affection of false modesty, seemed quite
unconscious of the emotions which he had excited in the breasts of his
two friends; and he therefore said to Dagobert, “What ails you?”
“What ails me!” exclaimed the brave old soldier, with great emotion:
“After having been for thirty years in the wars, I had imagined myself
to be about as courageous as any man. And now I find I have a master!
And that master is yourself!”
“I!” said Gabriel; “what do you mean? What have I done?”
“Thunder, don’t you know that the brave wounds there” (the veteran
took with transport both of Gabriel’s hands), “that these wounds are
as glorious--are more glorious than our--than all ours, as warriors by
profession!”
“Yes! yes, my father speaks truth!” exclaimed Agricola; and he added,
with enthusiasm, “Oh, for such priests! How I love them! How I
venerate them! How I am elevated by their charity, their courage, their
resignation!”
“I entreat you not to extol me thus,” said Gabriel with embarrassment.
“Not extol you!” replied Dagobert. “Hanged if I shouldn’t. When I have
gone into the heat of action, did I rush into it alone? Was I not under
the eyes of my commanding officer? Were not my comrades there along
with me? In default of true courage, had I not the instinct of self
preservation to spur me on, without reckoning the excitement of the
shouts and tumult of battle, the smell of the gunpowder, the flourishes
of the trumpets, the thundering of the cannon, the ardor of my horse,
which bounded beneath me as if the devil were at his tail? Need I state
that I also knew that the emperor was present, with his eye upon every
one--the emperor, who, in recompense for a hole being made in my tough
hide, would give me a bit of lace or a ribbon, as plaster for the wound.
Thanks to all these causes, I passed for game. Fair enough! But are
you not a thousand times more game than I, my brave boy; going alone,
unarmed, to confront enemies a hundred times more ferocious than those
whom we attacked--we, who fought in whole squadrons, supported by
artillery, bomb-shells, and case-shot?”
“Excellent father!” cried Agricola, “how noble of you to render to
Gabriel this justice!”
“Oh, dear brother,” said Gabriel, “his kindness to me makes him magnify
what was quite natural and simple!”
“Natural!” said the veteran soldier; “yes, natural for gallants who have
hearts of the true temper: but that temper is rare.”
“Oh, yes, very rare,” said Agricola; “for that kind of courage is the
most admirable of all. Most bravely did you seek almost certain death,
alone, bearing the cross in hand as your only weapon, to preach charity
and Christian brotherhood. They seized you, tortured you; and you await
death and partly endure it, without complaint, without remonstrance,
without hatred, without anger, without a wish for vengeance; forgiveness
issuing from your mouth, and a smile of pity beaming upon your lips;
and this in the depths of forests, where no one could witness your
magnanimity,--none could behold you--and without other desire, after you
were rescued than modestly to conceal blessed wounds under your black
robe! My father is right, by Jove! can you still contend that you are
not as brave as he?”
“And besides, too,” resumed Dagobert, “the dear boy did all that for
a thankless paymaster; for it is true, Agricola, that his wounds will
never change his humble black robe of a priest into the rich robe of a
bishop!”
“I am not so disinterested as I may seem to be,” said Gabriel to
Dagobert, smiling meekly. “If I am deemed worthy, a great recompense
awaits me on high.”
“As to all that, my boy,” said Dagobert, “I do not understand it; and I
will not argue about it. I maintain it, that my old cross of honor would
be at least as deservedly affixed to your cassock as upon my uniform.”
“But these recompenses are never conferred upon humble priests like
Gabriel,” said Agricola, “and if you did know, dear father, how
much virtue and valor is among those whom the highest orders in the
priesthood insolently call the inferior clergy,--the unseen merit and
the blind devotedness to be found amongst worthy, but obscure, country
curates, who are inhumanly treated and subjugated to a pitiless yoke by
the lordly lawnsleeves! Like us, those poor priests are worthy laborers
in their vocation; and for them, also, all generous hearts ought to
demand enfranchisement! Sons of common people, like ourselves, and
useful as we are, justice ought to be rendered both to them and to us.
Do I say right, Gabriel? You will not contradict it; for you have told
me, that your ambition would have been to obtain a small country curacy;
because you understand the good that you could work within it.”
“My desire is still the same,” said Gabriel sadly: “but unfortunately--”
and then, as if he wished to escape from a painful thought, and to
change the conversation, he, addressing himself to Dagobert, added:
“Believe me: be more just than to undervalue your own courage by
exalting mine. Your courage must be very great--very great; for, after
a battle, the spectacle of the carnage must be truly terrible to a
generous and feeling heart. We, at least, though we may be killed, do
not kill.”
At these words of the missionary, the soldier drew himself up erect,
looked upon Gabriel with astonishment, and said, “This is most
surprising!”
“What is?” inquired Agricola.
“What Gabriel has just told us,” replied Dagobert, “brings to my mind
what I experienced in warfare on the battlefield in proportion as I
advanced in years. Listen, my children: more than once, on the
night after a general engagement, I have been mounted as a
vidette,--alone,--by night,--amid the moonlight, on the field of battle
which remained in our possession, and upon which lay the bodies of
seven or eight thousand of the slain, amongst whom were mingled the
slaughtered remains of some of my old comrades: and then this sad scene,
when the profound silence has restored me to my senses from the thirst
for bloodshed and the delirious whirling of my sword (intoxicated
like the rest), I have said to myself, ‘for what have these men been
killed?--FOR WHAT--FOR WHAT?’ But this feeling, well understood as it
was, hindered me not, on the following morning, when the trumpets again
sounded the charge, from rushing once more to the slaughter. But the
same thought always recurred when my arm became weary with carnage; and
after wiping my sabre upon the mane of my horse, I have said to myself,
‘I have killed!--killed!!--killed!!! and, FOR WHAT!!!’”
The missionary and the blacksmith exchanged looks on hearing the old
soldier give utterance to this singular retrospection of the past.
“Alas!” said Gabriel to him, “all generous hearts feel as you did during
the solemn moments, when the intoxication of glory has subsided, and
man is left alone to the influence of the good instincts planted in his
bosom.”
“And that should prove, my brave boy,” rejoined Dagobert, “that you are
greatly better than I; for those noble instincts, as you call them, have
never abandoned you. * * * * But how the deuce did you escape from the
claws of the infuriated savages who had already crucified you?”
At this question of Dagobert, Gabriel started and reddened so visibly,
that the soldier said to him: “If you ought not or cannot answer my
request, let us say no more about it.”
“I have nothing to conceal, either from you or from my brother,” replied
the missionary with altered voice. “Only; it will be difficult for me to
make you comprehend what I cannot comprehend myself.”
“How is that?” asked Agricola with surprise.
“Surely,” said Gabriel, reddening more deeply, “I must have been
deceived by a fallacy of my senses, during that abstracted moment in
which I awaited death with resignation. My enfeebled mind, in spite of
me, must have been cheated by an illusion; or that, which to the present
hour has remained inexplicable, would have been more slowly developed;
and I should have known with greater certainty that it was the strange
woman--”
Dagobert, while listening to the missionary, was perfectly amazed; for
he also had vainly tried to account for the unexpected succor which had
freed him and the two orphans from the prison at Leipsic.
“Of what woman do you speak?” asked Agricola.
“Of her who saved me,” was the reply.
“A woman saved you from the hands of the savages?” said Dagobert.
“Yes,” replied Gabriel, though absorbed in his reflections, “a woman,
young and beautiful!”
“And who was this woman?” asked Agricola.
“I know not. When I asked her, she replied, ‘I am the sister of the
distressed!’”
“And whence came she? Whither went she?” asked Dagobert, singularly
interested.
“‘I go wheresoever there is suffering,’ she replied,” answered
the missionary; “and she departed, going towards the north of
America--towards those desolate regions in which there is eternal snow,
where the nights are without end.”
“As in Siberia,” said Dagobert, who had become very thoughtful.
“But,” resumed Agricola, addressing himself to Gabriel, who seemed also
to have become more and more absorbed, “in what manner or by what means
did this woman come to your assistance?”
The missionary was about to reply to the last question, when there was
heard a gentle tap at the door of the garret apartment, which renewed
the fears that Agricola had forgotten since the arrival of his adopted
brother. “Agricola,” said a sweet voice outside the door, “I wish to
speak with you as soon as possible.”
The blacksmith recognized Mother Bunch’s voice, and opened the door.
But the young sempstress, instead of entering, drew back into the dark
passage, and said, with a voice of anxiety: “Agricola, it is an hour
since broad day, and you have not yet departed! How imprudent! I have
been watching below, in the street, until now, and have seen nothing
alarming; but they may come any instant to arrest you. Hasten, I conjure
you, your departure for the abode of Miss de Cardoville. Not a minute
should be lost.”
“Had it not been for the arrival of Gabriel, I should have been gone.
But I could not resist the happiness of remaining some little time with
him.”
“Gabriel here!” said Mother Bunch, with sweet surprise; for, as has been
stated, she had been brought up with him and Agricola.
“Yes,” answered Agricola, “for half an hour he has been with my father
and me.”
“What happiness I shall have in seeing him again,” said the sewing-girl.
“He doubtless came upstairs while I had gone for a brief space to your
mother, to ask if I could be useful in any way on account of the young
ladies; but they have been so fatigued that they still sleep. Your
mother has requested me to give you this letter for your father. She has
just received it.”
“Thanks.”
“Well,” resumed Mother Bunch, “now that you have seen Gabriel, do not
delay long. Think what a blow it would be for your father, if they came
to arrest you in his very presence mon Dieu!”
“You are right,” said Agricola; “it is indispensable that I should
depart--while near Gabriel in spite of my anxiety, my fears were
forgotten.”
“Go quickly, then; and if Miss de Cardoville should grant this favor,
perhaps in a couple of hours you will return, quite at ease both as to
yourself and us.”
“True! a very few minutes more; and I’ll come down.”
“I return to watch at the door. If I perceive anything. I’ll come up
again to apprise you. But pray, do not delay.”
“Be easy, good sister.” Mother Bunch hurriedly descended the staircase,
to resume her watch at the street door, and Agricola re-entered his
garret. “Dear father,” he said to Dagobert, “my mother has just received
this letter, and she requests you to read it.”
“Very well; read it for me, my boy.” And Agricola read as follows:
“MADAME.--I understand that your husband has been charged by General
Simon with an affair of very great importance. Will you, as soon as your
husband arrives in Paris, request him to come to my office at Chartres
without a moment’s delay. I am instructed to deliver to himself, and
to no other person, some documents indispensable to the interests of
General Simon.
“DURAND, Notary at Chartres.”
Dagobert looked at his son with astonishment, and said to him, “Who can
have told this gentleman already of my arrival in Paris?”
“Perhaps, father,” said Agricola, “this is the notary to whom you
transmitted some papers, and whose address you have lost.”
“But his name was not Durand; and I distinctly recollect that his
address was Paris, not Chartres. And, besides,” said the soldier,
thoughtfully, “if he has some important documents, why didn’t he
transmit them to me?”
“It seems to me that you ought not to neglect going to him as soon as
possible,” said Agricola, secretly rejoiced that this circumstance
would withdraw his father for about two days, during which time his
(Agricola’s) fate would be decided in one way or other.
“Your counsel is good,” replied his father.
“This thwarts your intentions in some degree?” asked Gabriel.
“Rather, my lads; for I counted upon passing the day with you. However,
‘duty before everything.’ Having come happily from Siberia to Paris,
it is not for me to fear a journey from Paris to Chartres, when it is
required on an affair of importance. In twice twenty-four hours I shall
be back again. But the deuce take me if I expected to leave Paris for
Chartres to-day. Luckily, I leave Rose and Blanche with my good wife;
and Gabriel, their angel, as they call him, will be here to keep them
company.”
“That is, unfortunately, impossible,” said the missionary, sadly. “This
visit on my arrival is also a farewell visit.”
“A farewell visit! Now!” exclaimed Dagobert and Agricola both at once.
“Alas, yes!”
“You start already on another mission?” said Dagobert; “surely it is not
possible?”
“I must answer no question upon this subject,” said Gabriel, suppressing
a sigh: “but from now, for some time, I cannot, and ought not, come
again into this house.”
“Why, my brave boy,” resumed Dagobert with emotion, “there is something
in thy conduct that savors of constraint, of oppression. I know
something of men. He you call superior, whom I saw for some moments
after the shipwreck at Cardoville Castle, has a bad look; and I am sorry
to see you enrolled under such a commander.”
“At Cardoville Castle!” exclaimed Agricola, struck with the identity
of the name with that of the young lady of the golden hair; “was it in
Cardoville Castle that you were received after your shipwreck?”
“Yes, my boy; why, does that astonish you?” asked Dagobert.
“Nothing father; but were the owners of the castle there at the time?”
“No; for the steward, when I applied to him for an opportunity to return
thanks for the kind hospitality we had experienced, informed me that the
person to whom the house belonged was resident at Paris.”
“What a singular coincidence,” thought Agricola, “if the young lady
should be the proprietor of the dwelling which bears her name!”
This reflection having recalled to Agricola the promise which he had
made to Mother Bunch, he said to Dagobert; “Dear father, excuse me; but
it is already late, and I ought to be in the workshop by eight o’clock.”
“That is too true, my boy. Let us go. This party is adjourned till my
return from Chartres. Embrace me once more, and take care of yourself.”
Since Dagobert had spoken of constraint and oppression to Gabriel, the
latter had continued pensive. At the moment when Agricola approached
him to shake hands, and to bid him adieu, the missionary said to him
solemnly, with a grave voice, and in a tone of decision that astonished
both the blacksmith and the soldier: “My dear brother, one word more. I
have come here to say to you also that within a few days hence I shall
have need of you; and of you also, my father (permit me so to call
you),” added Gabriel, with emotion, as he turned round to Dagobert.
“How! you speak thus to us!” exclaimed Agricola; “what is the matter?”
“Yes,” replied Gabriel, “I need the advice and assistance of two men of
honor--of two men of resolution;--and I can reckon upon you two--can I
not? At any hour, on whatever day it may be, upon a word from me, will
you come?”
Dagobert and his son regarded each other in silence, astonished at the
accents of the missionary. Agricola felt an oppression of the heart. If
he should be a prisoner when his brother should require his assistance,
what could be done?
“At every hour, by night or by day, my brave boy, you may depend upon
us,” said Dagobert, as much surprised as interested--“You have a father
and a brother; make your own use of them.”
“Thanks, thanks,” said Gabriel, “you set me quite at ease.”
“I’ll tell you what,” resumed the soldier, “were it not for your
priest’s robe, I should believe, from the manner in which you have
spoken to us, that you are about to be engaged in a duel--in a mortal
combat.”
“In a duel?” said Gabriel, starting. “Yes; it may be a duel--uncommon
and fearful--at which it is necessary to have two witnesses such as
you--A FATHER and A BROTHER!”
Some instants afterwards, Agricola, whose anxiety was continually
increasing, set off in haste for the dwelling of Mademoiselle de
Cardoville, to which we now beg leave to take the reader.