CHAPTER VII. THE TRAVELER.

Upon the cry of the young girl, Dagobert rose abruptly.
"What is the matter, Rose?"
"There--there!" she said, pointing to the window. "I thought I saw a hand
move the pelisse."
She had not concluded these words before Dagobert rushed to the window
and opened it, tearing down the mantle, which had been suspended from the
fastening.
It was still dark night, and the wind was blowing hard. The soldier
listened, but could hear nothing.
Returning to fetch the lamp from the table, he shaded the flame with his
hand, and strove to throw the light outside. Still he saw nothing.
Persuaded that a gust of wind had disturbed and shaken the pelisse: and
that Rose had been deceived by her own fears he again shut the window.
"Be satisfied, children! The wind is very high; it is that which lifted
the corner of the pelisse."
"Yet methought I saw plainly the fingers which had hold of it," said
Rose, still trembling.
"I was looking at Dagobert," said Blanche, "and I saw nothing."
"There was nothing to see, my children; the thing is clear enough. The
window is at least eight feet above the ground; none but a giant could
reach it without a ladder. Now, had any one used a ladder, there would
not have been time to remove it; for, as soon as Rose cried out, I ran to
the window, and, when I held out the light, I could see nothing."
"I must have been deceived," said Rose.
"You may be sure, sister, it was only the wind," added Blanche.
"Then I beg pardon for having disturbed you, my good Dagobert."
"Never mind!" replied the soldier musingly, "I am only sorry that Spoil
sport is not come back. He would have watched the window, and that would
have quite tranquillized you. But he no doubt scented the stable of his
comrade, Jovial, and will have called in to bid him good-night on the
road. I have half a mind to go and fetch him."
"Oh, no, Dagobert! do not leave us alone," cried the maidens; "we are too
much afraid."
"Well, the dog is not likely to remain away much longer, and I am sure we
shall soon hear him scratching at the door, so we will continue our
story," said Dagobert, as he again seated himself near the head of the
bed, but this time with his face towards the window.
"Now the general was prisoner at Warsaw," continued he, "and in love with
your mother, whom they wished to marry to another. In 1814, we learned
the finish of the war, the banishment of the Emperor to the Isle of Elba,
and the return of the Bourbons. In concert with the Prussians and
Russians, who had brought them back, they had exiled the Emperor.
Learning all this, your mother said to the general: 'The war is finished;
you are free, but your Emperor is in trouble. You owe everything to him;
go and join him in his misfortunes. I know not when we shall meet again,
but I shall never marry any one but you, I am yours till death!'--Before
he set out the general called me to him, and said: 'Dagobert, remain
here; Mademoiselle Eva may have need of you to fly from her family, if
they should press too hard upon her; our correspondence will have to pass
through your hands; at Paris, I shall see your wife and son; I will
comfort them, and tell them you are my friend.'"
"Always the same," said Rose, with emotion, as she looked affectionately
at Dagobert.
"As faithful to the father and mother as to their children," added Blanche.
"To love one was to love them all," replied the soldier. "Well, the
general joined the Emperor at Elba; I remained at Warsaw, concealed in
the neighborhood of your mother's house; I received the letters, and
conveyed them to her clandestinely. In one of those letters--I feel proud
to tell you of it my children--the general informed me that the Emperor
himself had remembered me."
"What, did he know you?"
"A little, I flatter myself--'Oh! Dagobert!' said he to your father, who
was talking to him about me; 'a horse-grenadier of my old guard--a
soldier of Egypt and Italy, battered with wounds--an old dare-devil, whom
I decorated with my own hand at Wagram--I have not forgotten him!'--I
vow, children, when your mother read that to me, I cried like a fool."
"The Emperor--what a fine golden face he has on the silver cross with the
red ribbon that you would sometimes show us when we behaved well."
"That cross--given by him--is my relic. It is there in my knapsack, with
whatever we have of value--our little purse and papers. But, to return to
your mother; it was a great consolation to her, when I took her letters
from the general, or talked with her about him--for she suffered
much--oh, so much! In vain her parents tormented and persecuted her; she
always answered: 'I will never marry any one but General Simon.' A
spirited woman, I can tell you--resigned, but wonderfully courageous. One
day she received a letter from the general; he had left the Isle of Elba
with the Emperor; the war had again broken out, a short campaign, but as
fierce as ever, and heightened by soldiers' devotion. In that campaign of
France; my children, especially at Montmirail, your father fought like a
lion, and his division followed his example it was no longer valor--it
was frenzy. He told me that, in Champagne, the peasants killed so many of
those Prussians, that their fields were manured with them for years. Men,
women, children, all rushed upon them. Pitchforks, stones, mattocks, all
served for the slaughter. It was a true wolf hunt!"
The veins swelled on the soldier's forehead, and his cheeks flushed as he
spoke, for this popular heroism recalled to his memory the sublime
enthusiasm of the wars of the republic--those armed risings of a whole
people, from which dated the first steps of his military career, as the
triumphs of the Empire were the last days of his service.
The orphans, too, daughters of a soldier and a brave woman, did not
shrink from the rough energy of these words, but felt their cheeks glow,
and their hearts beat tumultuously.
"How happy we are to be the children of so brave a father!" cried Blanche.
"It is a happiness and an honor too, my children--for the evening of the
battle of Montmirail, the Emperor, to the joy of the whole army, made
your father Duke of Ligny and Marshal of France."
"Marshal of France!" said Rose in astonishment, without understanding the
exact meaning of the words.
"Duke of Ligny!" added Blanche with equal surprise.
"Yes; Peter Simon, the son of a workman, became duke and marshal--there
is nothing higher except a king!" resumed Dagobert, proudly. "That's how
the Emperor treated the sons of the people, and, therefore, the people
were devoted to him. It was all very fine to tell them 'Your Emperor
makes you food for cannon.' 'Stuff!' replied the people, who are no
fools, 'another would make us food for misery. We prefer the cannon, with
the chance of becoming captain or colonel, marshal, king--or invalid;
that's better than to perish with hunger, cold, and age, on straw in a garret,
after toiling forty years for others.'"
"Even in France--even in Paris, that beautiful city--do you mean to say
there are poor people who die of hunger and misery, Dagobert?"
"Even in Paris? Yes, my children; therefore, I come back to the point,
the cannon is better. With it, one has the chance of becoming, like your
father, duke and marshal: when I say duke and marshal, I am partly right
and partly wrong, for the title and the rank were not recognized in the
end; because, after Montmirail, came a day of gloom, a day of great
mourning, when, as the general has told me, old soldiers like myself
wept--yes, wept!--on the evening of a battle. That day, my children, was
Waterloo!"
There was in these simple words of Dagobert an expression of such deep
sorrow, that it thrilled the hearts of the orphans.
"Alas!" resumed the soldier, with a sigh, "there are days which seem to
have a curse on them. That same day, at Waterloo, the general fell,
covered with wounds, at the head of a division of the Guards. When he was
nearly cured, which was not for a long time, he solicited permission to
go to St. Helena--another island at the far end of the world, to which
the English had carried the Emperor, to torture him at their leisure; for
if he was very fortunate in the first instance, he had to go through a
deal of hard rubs at last, my poor children."
"If you talk in that way, you will make us cry, Dagobert."
"There is cause enough for it--the Emperor suffered so much! He bled
cruelly at the heart believe me. Unfortunately, the general was not with
him at St. Helena; he would have been one more to console him; but they
would not allow him to go. Then, exasperated, like so many others,
against the Bourbons, the general engaged in a conspiracy to recall the
son of the Emperor. He relied especially on one regiment, nearly all
composed of his old soldiers, and he went down to a place in Picardy,
where they were then in garrison; but the conspiracy had already been
divulged. Arrested the moment of his arrival, the general was taken
before the colonel of the regiment. And this colonel," said the soldier,
after a brief pause, "who do you think it was again? Bah! it would be too
long to tell you all, and would only make you more sad; but it was a man
whom your father had many reasons to hate. When he found himself face to
face with him, he said: 'if you are not a coward, you will give me one
hour's liberty, and we will fight to the death; I hate you for this, I
despise you for that'--and so on. The colonel accepted the challenge, and
gave your father his liberty till the morrow. The duel was a desperate
one; the colonel was left for dead on the spot."
"Merciful heaven!"
"The general was yet wiping his sword, when a faithful friend came to
him, and told him he had only just time to save himself. In fact, he
happily succeeded in leaving France--yes, happily--for a fortnight after,
he was condemned to death as a conspirator."
"What misfortunes, good heaven!"
"There was some luck, however, in the midst of his troubles. Your mother
had kept her promise bravely, and was still waiting for him. She had
written to him: 'The Emperor first, and me next!' both unable to do
anything more for the Emperor, nor even for his son, the general,
banished from France, set out for Warsaw. Your mother had lost her
parents, and was now free; they were married--and I am one of the
witnesses to the marriage."
"You are right, Dagobert; that was great happiness in the midst of great
misfortunes!"
"Yes, they were very happy; but, as it happened with all good hearts, the
happier they were themselves, the more they felt for the sorrows of
others--and there was quite enough to grieve them at Warsaw. The Russians
had again begun to treat the Poles as their slaves; your brave mother,
though of French origin, was a Pole in heart and soul; she spoke out
boldly what others did not dare speak in a whisper, and all the
unfortunate called her their protecting angel. That was enough to excite
the suspicions of the Russian governor. One day, a friend of the
general's, formerly a colonel in the lancers, a brave and worthy man, was
condemned to be exiled to Siberia for a military plot against the
Russians. He took refuge in your father's house, and lay hid there; but
his retreat was discovered. During the next night, a party of Cossacks,
commanded by an officer, and followed by a travelling-carriage, arrive at
our door; they rouse the general from his sleep and take him away with them."
"Oh, heaven! what did they mean to do with him?"
"Conduct him out of the Russian dominions, with a charge never to return,
on pain of perpetual imprisonment. His last words were: 'Dagobert, I
entrust to thee my wife and child!'--for it wanted yet some months of the
time when you were to be born. Well, notwithstanding that, they exiled
your mother to Siberia; it was an opportunity to get rid of her; she did
too much good at Warsaw, and they feared her accordingly. Not content
with banishing her, they confiscated all her property; the only favor she
could obtain was, that I should accompany her, and, had it not been for
Jovial, whom the general had given to me, she would have had to make the
journey on foot. It was thus, with her on horseback, and I leading her as
I lead you, my children, that we arrived at the poverty-stricken village,
where, three months after, you poor little things were born!"
"And our father?"
"It was impossible for him to return to Russia; impossible for your
mother to think of flight, with two children; impossible for the general
to write to her, as he knew not where she was."
"So, since that time, you have had no news of him?"
"Yes, my children--once we had news."
"And by whom?"
After a moment's silence, Dagobert resumed with a singular expression of
countenance: "By whom?--by one who is not like other men. Yes--that you
may understand me better, I will relate to you an extraordinary
adventure, which happened to your father during his last French campaign.
He had been ordered by the Emperor to carry a battery, which was playing
heavily on our army; after several unsuccessful efforts, the general put
himself at the head of a regiment of cuirassiers, and charged the
battery, intending, as was his custom, to cut down the men at their guns.
He was on horseback, just before the mouth of a cannon, where all the
artillerymen had been either killed or wounded, when one of them still
found strength to raise himself upon one knee, and to apply the lighted
match to the touchhole--and that when your father was about ten paces in
front of the loaded piece."
"Oh! what a peril for our father!"
"Never, he told me, had he run such imminent danger for he saw the
artilleryman apply the match, and the gun go off--but, at the very nick,
a man of tall stature, dressed as a peasant, and whom he had not before
remarked, threw himself in front of the cannon."
"Unfortunate creature! what a horrible death!"
"Yes," said Dagobert, thoughtfully; "it should have been so. He ought by
rights to have been blown into a thousand pieces. But no--nothing of the kind!"
"What do you tell us?"
"What the general told me. 'At the moment when the gun went off,' as he
often repeated to me, 'I shut my eyes by an involuntary movement, that I
might not see the mutilated body of the poor wretch who had sacrificed
himself in my place. When I again opened them, the first thing I saw in
the midst of the smoke, was the tall figure of this man, standing erect
and calm on the same spot, and casting a sad mild look on the
artilleryman, who, with one knee on the ground, and his body thrown
backward, gazed on him in as much terror as if he had been the devil.
Afterwards, I lost sight of this man in the tumult,' added your father."
"Bless me Dagobert! how can this be possible?"
"That is just what I said to the general. He answered me that he had
never been able to explain to himself this event, which seemed as
incredible as it was true. Moreover, your father must have been greatly
struck with the countenance of this man, who appeared, he said, about
thirty years of age--for he remarked, that his extremely black eyebrows
were joined together, and formed, as it were, one line from temple to
temple, so that he seemed to have a black streak across his forehead.
Remember this, my children; you will soon see why."
"Oh, Dagobert! we shall not forget it," said the orphans, growing more
and more astonished as he proceeded.
"Is it not strange--this man with a black seam on his forehead?"
"Well, you shall hear. The general had, as I told you, been left for dead
at Waterloo. During the night which he passed on the field of battle, in
a sort of delirium brought on by the fever of his wounds, he saw, or
fancied he saw, this same man bending over him, with a look of great
mildness and deep melancholy, stanching his wounds, and using every
effort to revive him. But as your father, whose senses were still
wandering, repulsed his kindness saying, that after such a defeat, it
only remained to die--it appeared as if this man replied to him; 'You
must live for Eva!' meaning your mother, whom the general had left at
Warsaw, to join the Emperor, and make this campaign of France."
"How strange, Dagobert!--And since then, did our father never see this
man?"
"Yes, he saw him--for it was he who brought news of the general to your
poor mother."
"When was that? We never heard of it."
"You remember that, on the day your mother died, you went to the pine
forest with old Fedora?"
"Yes," answered Rose, mournfully; "to fetch some heath, of which our
mother was so fond."
"Poor mother!" added Blanche; "she appeared so well that morning, that we
could not dream of the calamity which awaited us before night."
"True, my children; I sang and worked that morning in the garden,
expecting, no more than you did, what was to happen. Well, as I was
singing at my work, on a sudden I heard a voice ask me in French: 'Is
this the village of Milosk?'--I turned round, and saw before me a
stranger; I looked at him attentively, and, instead of replying, fell
back two steps, quite stupefied."
"Ah, why?"
"He was of tall stature, very pale, with a high and open forehead; but
his eyebrows met, and seemed to form one black streak across it."
"Then it was the same man who had twice been with our father in battle?"
"Yes--it was he."
"But, Dagobert," said Rose, thoughtfully, "is it not a long time since
these battles?"
"About sixteen years."
"And of what age was this stranger?"
"Hardly more than thirty."
"Then how can it be the same man, who sixteen years before, had been with
our father in the wars?"
"You are right," said Dagobert, after a moment's silence, and shrugging
his shoulders: "I may have been deceived by a chance likeness--and yet--"
"Or, if it were the same, he could not have got older all that while."
"But did you ask him, if he had not formerly relieved our father?"
"At first I was so surprised that I did not think of it; and afterwards,
he remained so short a time, that I had no opportunity. Well, he asked me
for the village of Milosk. 'You are there, sir,' said I, 'but how do you
know that I am a Frenchman?' 'I heard you singing as I passed,' replied
he; 'could you tell me the house of Madame Simon, the general's wife?'
'She lives here, sir.' Then looking at me for some seconds in silence, he
took me by the hand and said: 'You are the friend of General Simon--his
best friend?' Judge of my astonishment, as I answered: 'But, sir, how do
you know?' 'He has often spoken of you with gratitude.' 'You have seen
the general then?' 'Yes, some time ago, in India. I am also his friend: I
bring news of him to his wife, whom I knew to be exiled in Siberia. At
Tobolsk, whence I come, I learned that she inhabits this village. Conduct
me to her!'"
"The good traveller--I love him already," said Rose.
"Yes, being father's friend."
"I begged him to wait an instant, whilst I went to inform your mother, so
that the surprise might not do her harm; five minutes after, he was
beside her."
"And what kind of man was this traveller, Dagobert?"
"He was very tall; he wore a dark pelisse, and a fur cap, and had long
black hair."
"Was he handsome?"
"Yes, my children--very handsome; but with so mild and melancholy an air,
that it pained my heart to see him."
"Poor man! he had doubtless known some great sorrow."
"Your mother had been closeted with him for some minutes, when she called
me to her and said that she had just received good news of the general.
She was in tears, and had before her a large packet of papers; it was a
kind of journal, which your father had written every evening to console
himself; not being able to speak to her, he told the paper all that he
would have told her."
"Oh! where are these papers, Dagobert?"
"There, in the knapsack, with my cross and our purse. One day I will give
them to you: but I have picked out a few leaves here and there for you to
read presently. You will see why."
"Had our father been long in India?"
"I gathered from the few words which your mother said, that the general
had gone to that country, after fighting for the Greeks against the
Turks--for he always liked to side with the weak against the strong. In
India he made fierce war against the English, they had murdered our
prisoners in pontoons, and tortured the Emperor at St. Helena, and the
war was a doubly good one, for in harming them he served a just cause."
"What cause did he serve then?"
"That of one of the poor native princes, whose territories the English,
lay waste, till the day when they can take possession of them against law
and right. You see, my children, it was once more the weak against the
strong, and your father did not miss this opportunity. In a few months he
had so well-trained and disciplined the twelve or fifteen thousand men of
the prince, that, in two encounters, they cut to pieces the English sent
against them, and who, no doubt, had in their reckoning left out your
brave father, my children. But come, you shall read some pages of his
journal, which will tell you more and better than I can. Moreover, you
will find in them a name which you ought always to remember; that's why I
chose this passage."
"Oh, what happiness! To read the pages written by our father, is almost
to hear him speak," said Rose.
"It is as if he were close beside us," added Blanche.
And the girls stretched out their hands with eagerness, to catch hold of
the leaves that Dagobert had taken from his pocket. Then, by a
simultaneous movement, full of touching grace, they pressed the writing
of their father in silence to their lips.
"You will see also, my children, at the end of this letter, why I was
surprised that your guardian angel, as you say, should be called Gabriel.
Read, read," added the soldier, observing the puzzled air of the orphans.
"Only I ought to tell you that, when he wrote this, the general had not
yet fallen in with the traveller who brought the papers."
Rose, sitting up in her bed, took the leaves, and began to read in a soft
and trembling voice, Blanche, with her head resting on her sister's
shoulder, followed attentively every word. One could even see, by the
slight motion of her lips, that she too was reading, but only to herself.

CHAPTER VI. THE SECRET.

"First of all, good Dagobert," said Rose, in a gracefully caressing
manner, "as we are going to tell our secret--you must promise not to
scold us."
"You will not scold your darlings, will you?" added Blanche, in a no less
coaxing voice.
"Granted!" replied Dagobert gravely; "particularly as I should not well
know how to set about it--but why should I scold you."
"Because we ought perhaps to have told you sooner what we are going to
tell you."
"Listen, my children," said Dagobert sententiously, after reflecting a
moment on this case of conscience; "one of two things must be. Either you
were right, or else you were wrong, to hide this from me. If you were
right, very well; if you were wrong, it is done: so let's say no more
about it. Go on--I am all attention."
Completely reassured by this luminous decision, Rose resumed, while she
exchanged a smile with her sister.
"Only think, Dagobert; for two successive nights we have had a visitor."
"A visitor!" cried the soldier, drawing himself up suddenly in his chair.
"Yes, a charming visitor--he is so very fair."
"Fair--the devil!" cried Dagobert, with a start.
"Yes, fair--and with blue eyes," added Blanche.
"Blue eyes--blue devils!" and Dagobert again bounded on his seat.
"Yes, blue eyes--as long as that," resumed Rose, placing the tip of one
forefinger about the middle of the other.
"Zounds! they might be as long as that," said the veteran, indicating the
whole length of his term from the elbow, "they might be as long as that,
and it would have nothing to do with it. Fair, and with blue eyes. Pray
what may this mean, young ladies?" and Dagobert rose from his seat with a
severe and painfully unquiet look.
"There now, Dagobert, you have begun to scold us already."
"Just at the very commencement," added Blanche.
"Commencement!--what, is there to be a sequel? a finish?"
"A finish? we hope not," said Rose, laughing like mad.
"All we ask is, that it should last forever," added Blanche, sharing in
the hilarity of her sister.
Dagobert looked gravely from one to the other of the two maidens, as if
trying to guess this enigma; but when he saw their sweet, innocent faces
gracefully animated by a frank, ingenuous laugh, he reflected that they
would not be so gay if they had any serious matter for self-reproach, and
he felt pleased at seeing them so merry in the midst of their precarious
position.
"Laugh on, my children!" he said. "I like so much to see you laugh."
Then, thinking that was not precisely the way in which he ought to treat
the singular confession of the young girls, he added in a gruff voice:
"Yes, I like to see you laugh--but not when you receive fair visitors
with blue eyes, young ladies!--Come, acknowledge that I'm an old fool to
listen to such nonsense--you are only making game of me."
"Nay, what we tell you is quite true."
"You know we never tell stories," added Rose.
"They are right--they never fib," said the soldier, in renewed
perplexity.
"But how the devil is such a visit possible? I sleep before your
door--Spoil-sport sleeps under your window--and all the blue eyes and
fair locks in the world must come in by one of those two ways--and, if
they had tried it, the dog and I, who have both of us quick ears, would
have received their visits after our fashion. But come, children! pray,
speak to the purpose. Explain yourselves!"
The two sisters, who saw, by the expression of Dagobert's countenance,
that he felt really uneasy, determined no longer to trifle with his
kindness. They exchanged a glance, and Rose, taking in her little hand
the coarse, broad palm of the veteran, said to him: "Come, do not plague
yourself! We will tell you all about the visits of our friend, Gabriel."
"There you are again!--He has a name, then?"
"Certainly, he has a name. It is Gabriel."
"Is it not a pretty name, Dagobert? Oh, you will see and love, as we do,
our beautiful Gabriel!"
"I'll love your beautiful Gabriel, will I?" said the veteran, shaking his
head--"Love your beautiful Gabriel?--that's as it may be. I must first
know--" Then, interrupting himself, he added: "It is queer. That reminds
me of something."
"Of what, Dagobert?"
"Fifteen years ago, in the last letter that your father, on his return
from France, brought me from my wife: she told me that, poor as she was,
and with our little growing Agricola on her hands, she had taken in a
poor deserted child, with the face of a cherub, and the name of
Gabriel--and only a short time since I heard of him again."
"And from whom, then?"
"You shall know that by and by."
"Well, then--since you have a Gabriel of your own--there is the more
reason that you should love ours."
"Yours! but who is yours? I am on thorns till you tell me."
"You know, Dagobert," resumed Rose, "that Blanche and I are accustomed to
fall asleep, holding each other by the hand."
"Yes, yes, I have often seen you in your cradle. I was never tired of
looking at you; it was so pretty."
"Well, then--two nights ago, we had just fallen asleep, when we beheld--"
"Oh, it was in a dream!" cried Dagobert. "Since you were asleep, it was
in a dream!"
"Certainly, in a dream--how else would you have it?"
"Pray let my sister go on with her tale!"
"All, well and good!" said the soldier with a sigh of satisfaction; "well
and good! To be sure, I was tranquil enough in any case--because--but
still--I like it better to be a dream. Continue, my little Rose."
"Once asleep, we both dreamt the same thing."
"What! both the same?"
"Yes, Dagobert; for the next morning when we awoke we related our two
dreams to each other."
"And they were exactly alike."
"That's odd enough, my children; and what was this dream all about?"
"In our dream, Blanche and I were seated together, when we saw enter a
beautiful angel, with a long white robe, fair locks, blue eyes, and so
handsome and benign a countenance, that we elapsed our hands as if to
pray to him. Then he told us, in a soft voice, that he was called
Gabriel; that our mother had sent him to be our guardian angel, and that
he would never abandon us."
"And, then," added Blanche, "he took us each by the hand, and, bending
his fair face over us, looked at us for a long time in silence, with so
much goodness--with so much goodness, that we could not withdraw our eyes
from his."
"Yes," resumed Rose, "and his look seemed, by turns, to attract us, or to
go to our hearts. At length, to our great sorrow, Gabriel quitted us,
having told us that we should see him again the following night."
"And did he make his appearance?"
"Certainly. Judge with what impatience we waited the moment of sleep, to
see if our friend would return, and visit us in our slumbers."
"Humph!" said Dagobert, scratching his forehead; "this reminds me, young
ladies, that you kept on rubbing your eyes last evening, and pretending
to be half asleep. I wager, it was all to send me away the sooner, and to
get to your dream as fast as possible."
"Yes, Dagobert."
"The reason being, you could not say to me, as you would to Spoil-sport:
Lie down, Dagobert! Well--so your friend Gabriel came back?"
"Yes, and this time he talked to us a great deal, and gave us, in the
name of our mother, such touching, such noble counsels, that the next
day, Rose and I spent our whole time in recalling every word of our
guardian angel--and his face, and his look--"
"This reminds me again, young ladies, that you were whispering all along
the road this morning; and that when I spoke of white, you answered
black."
"Yes, Dagobert, we were thinking of Gabriel."
"And, ever since, we love him as well as he loves us."
"But he is only one between both of you!"
"Was not our mother one between us?"
"And you, Dagobert--are you not also one for us both?"
"True, true! And yet, do you know, I shall finish by being jealous of
that Gabriel?"
"You are our friend by day--he is our friend by night."
"Let's understand it clearly. If you talk of him all day, and dream of
him all night, what will there remain for me?"
"There will remain for you your two orphans, whom you love so much," said
Rose.
"And who have only you left upon earth," added Blanche, in a caressing
tongue.
"Humph! humph! that's right, coax the old man over, Nay, believe me, my
children," added the soldier, tenderly, "I am quite satisfied with my
lot. I can afford to let you have your Gabriel. I felt sure that Spoil
sport and myself could take our rest in quiet. After all, there is
nothing so astonishing in what you tell me; your first dream struck your
fancy, and you talked so much about it that you had a second; nor should
I be surprised if you were to see this fine fellow a third time."
"Oh, Dagobert! do not make a jest of it! They are only dreams, but we
think our mother sends them to us. Did she not tell us that orphan
children were watched over by guardian angels? Well, Gabriel is our
guardian angel; he will protect us, and he will protect you also."
"Very kind of him to think of me; but you see, my dear children, for the
matter of defence, I prefer the dog; he is less fair than your angel, but
he has better teeth, and that is more to be depended on."
"How provoking you are, Dagobert--always jesting!"
"It is true; you can laugh at everything."
"Yes, I am astonishingly gay; I laugh with my teeth shut, in the style of
old Jovial. Come, children, don't scold me: I know I am wrong. The
remembrance of your dear mother is mixed with this dream, and you do well
to speak of it seriously. Besides," added he, with a grave air, "dreams
will sometimes come true. In Spain, two of the Empress's dragoons,
comrades of mine, dreamt, the night before their death, that they would
be poisoned by the monks--and so it happened. If you continue to dream of
this fair angel Gabriel, it is--it is--why, it is, because you are amused
by it; and, as you have none too many pleasures in the daytime, you may
as well get an agreeable sleep at night. But, now, my children, I have
also much to tell you; it will concern your mother; promise me not to be
sad."
"Be satisfied! when we think of her we are not sad, though serious."
"That is well. For fear of grieving you, I have always delayed the moment
of telling what your poor mother would have confided to you as soon as
you were no longer children. But she died before she had time to do so,
and that which I have to tell broke her heart--as it nearly did mine. I
put off this communication as long as I could, taking for pretext that I
would say nothing till we came to the field of battle where your father
was made prisoner. That gave me time; but the moment is now come; I can
shuffle it off no longer."
"We listen, Dagobert," responded the two maidens, with an attentive and
melancholy air.
After a moment's silence, during which he appeared to reflect, the
veteran thus addressed the young girls:
"Your father, General Simon, was the son of a workman, who remained a
workman; for, notwithstanding all that the general could say or do, the
old man was obstinate in not quitting his trade. He had a heart of gold
and a head of iron, just like his son. You may suppose, my children, that
when your father, who had enlisted as a private soldier, became a general
and a count of the empire, it was not without toil or without glory."
"A count of the Empire! what is that, Dagobert?"
"Flummery--a title, which the Emperor gave over and above the promotion,
just for the sake of saying to the people, whom he loved because he was
one of them: Here, children! You wish to play at nobility! You shall be
nobles. You wish to play at royalty! You shall be kings. Take what you
like--nothing is too good for you--enjoy yourselves!"
"Kings!" said the two girls, joining their hands in admiration.
"Kings of the first water. Oh, he was no niggard of his crowns, our
Emperor! I had a bed-fellow of mine, a brave soldier, who was afterwards
promoted to be king. This flattered us; for, if it was not one, it was
the other. And so, at this game, your father became count; but, count or
not, he was one of the best and bravest generals of the army."
"He was handsome, was he not, Dagobert?--mother always said so."
"Oh, yes! indeed he was--but quite another thing from your fair guardian
angel. Picture to yourself a fine, dark man, who looked splendid in his
full uniform, and could put fire into the soldiers' hearts. With him to
lead, we would have charged up into Heaven itself--that is, if Heaven
had, permitted it," added Dagobert, not wishing to wound in any way the
religious beliefs of the orphans.
"And father was as good as he was brave, Dagobert."
"Good, my children? Yes, I should say so!--He could bend a horse-shoe in
his hand as you would bend a card, and the day he was taken prisoner he
had cut down the Prussian artillerymen on their very cannon. With
strength and courage like that, how could he be otherwise than good? It
is then about nineteen years ago, not far from this place--on the spot I
showed you before we arrived at the village--that the general,
dangerously wounded, fell from his horse. I was following him at the
time, and ran to his assistance. Five minutes after we were made
prisoners--and by whom think you?--by a Frenchman."
"A Frenchman?"
"Yes, an emigrant marquis, a colonel in the service of Russia," answered
Dagobert, with bitterness. "And so, when this marquis advanced towards
us, and said to the general: 'Surrender, sir, to a countryman!'--'A
Frenchman, who fights against France,' replied the general, 'is no longer
my countryman; he is a traitor, and I'd never surrender to a traitor!'
And, wounded though he was, he dragged himself up to a Russian grenadier,
and delivered him his sabre, saying: 'I surrender to you my brave
fellow!' The marquis became pale with rage at it."
The orphans looked at each other with pride, and a rich crimson mantled
their cheeks, as they exclaimed: "Oh, our brave father!"
"Ah, those children," said Dagobert, as he proudly twirled his moustache.
"One sees they have soldier's blood in their veins! Well," he continued,
"we were now prisoners. The general's last horse had been killed under
him; and, to perform the journey, he mounted Jovial, who had not been
wounded that day. We arrived at Warsaw, and there it was that the general
first saw your mother. She was called the Pearl of Warsaw; that is saying
everything. Now he, who admired all that is good and beautiful, fell in
love with her almost immediately; and she loved him in return; but her
parents had promised her to another--and that other was the same--"
Dagobert was unable to proceed. Rose uttered a piercing cry, and pointed
in terror to the window.

CHAPTER V. ROSE AND BLANCHE.

The orphans occupied a dilapidated chamber in one of the most remote
wings of the inn, with a single window opening upon the country. A bed
without curtains, a table, and two chairs, composed the more than modest
furniture of this retreat, which was now lighted by a lamp. On the table,
which stood near the window, was deposited the knapsack of the soldier.
The great Siberian dog, who was lying close to the door, had already
twice uttered a deep growl, and turned his head towards the window--but
without giving any further affect to this hostile manifestation.
The two sisters, half recumbent in their bed, were clad in long white
wrappers, buttoned at the neck and wrists. They wore no caps, but their
beautiful chestnut hair was confined at the temples by a broad piece of
tape, so that it might not get tangled during the night. These white
garments, and the white fillet that like a halo encircled their brows,
gave to their fresh and blooming faces a still more candid expression.
The orphans laughed and chatted, for, in spite of some early sorrows,
they still retained the ingenuous gayety of their age. The remembrance of
their mother would sometimes make them sad, but this sorrow had in it
nothing bitter; it was rather a sweet melancholy, to be sought instead of
shunned. For them, this adored mother was not dead--she was only absent.
Almost as ignorant as Dagobert, with regard to devotional exercises, for
in the desert where they had lived there was neither church nor priest,
their faith, as was already said, consisted in this--that God, just and
good, had so much pity for the poor mothers whose children were left on
earth, that he allowed them to look down upon them from highest
heaven--to see them always, to hear them always, and sometimes to send
fair guardian angels to protect therein. Thanks to this guileless
illusion, the orphans, persuaded that their mother incessantly watched
over them, felt, that to do wrong would be to afflict her, and to forfeit
the protection of the good angels.--This was the entire theology of Rose
and Blanche--a creed sufficient for such pure and loving souls.
Now, on the evening in question, the two sisters chatted together whilst
waiting for Dagobert. Their theme interested them much, for, since some
days, they had a secret, a great secret, which often quickened the
beatings of their innocent hearts, often agitated their budding bosoms,
changed to bright scarlet the roses on their cheeks, and infused a
restless and dreamy langour into the soft blue of their large eyes.
Rose, this evening, occupied the edge of the couch, with her rounded arms
crossed behind her head, which was half turned towards her sister;
Blanche, with her elbow resting on the bolster, looked at her smilingly,
and said: "Do you think he will come again to-night?"
"Oh, yes! certainly. He promised us yesterday."
"He is so good, he would not break his promise."
"And so handsome, with his long fair curls."
"And his name--what a charming name!--How well it suits his face."
"And what a sweet smile and soft voice, when he says to us, taking us by
the hand: 'My children, bless God that he has given you one soul. What
others seek elsewhere, you will find in yourselves.'"
"'Since your two hearts,' he added, 'only make one.'"
"What pleasure to remember his words, sister!"
"We are so attentive! When I see you listening to him, it is as if I saw
myself, my dear little mirror!" said Rose, laughing, and kissing her
sister's forehead. "Well--when he speaks, your--or rather our eyes--are
wide, wide open, our lips moving as if we repeated every word after him.
It is no wonder we forget nothing that he says."
"And what he says is so grand, so noble, and generous."
"Then, my sister, as he goes on talking, what good thoughts rise within
us! If we could but always keep them in mind."
"Do not be afraid! they will remain in our hearts, like little birds in their mother's nests."
"And how lucky it is, Rose, that he loves us both at the same time!"
"He could not do otherwise, since we have but one heart between us."
"How could he love Rose, without loving Blanche?"
"What would have become of the poor, neglected one?"
"And then again he would have found it so difficult to choose."
"We are so much like one another."
"So, to save himself that trouble," said Rose, laughing, "he has chosen us both."
"And is it not the best way? He is alone to love us; we are two together to think of him."
"Only he must not leave us till we reach Paris."
"And in Paris, too--we must see him there also."
"Oh, above all at Paris; it will be good to have him with us--and
Dagobert, too--in that great city. Only think, Blanche, how beautiful it must be."
"Paris!--it must be like a city all of gold."
"A city, where every one must be happy, since it is so beautiful."
"But ought we, poor orphans, dare so much as to enter it? How people will look at us!"
"Yes--but every one there is happy, every one must be good also." "They will love us."
"And, besides, we shall be with our friend with the fair hair and blue eyes."
"He has yet told us nothing of Paris."
"He has not thought of it; we must speak to him about it this very night."
"If he is in the mood for talking. Often you know, he likes best to gaze
on us in silence--his eyes on our eyes."
"Yes. In those moments, his look recalls to me the gaze of our dear mother."
"And, as she sees it all, how pleased she must be at what has happened to us!"
"Because, when we are so much beloved, we must, I hope, deserve it."
"See what a vain thing it is!" said Blanche, smoothing with her slender
fingers the parting of the hair on her sister's forehead.
After a moment's reflection, Rose said to her: "Don't you think we should relate all this to Dagobert?" "If you think so, let us do it."
"We tell him everything, as we told everything to mother. Why should we conceal this from him?"
"Especially as it is something which gives us so much pleasure."
"Do you not find that, since we have known our friend, our hearts beat quicker and stronger?" "Yes, they seem to be more full."
"The reason why is plain enough; our friend fills up a good space in them."
"Well, we will do best to tell Dagobert what a lucky star ours is."
"You are right--" At this moment the dog gave another deep growl.
"Sister," said Rose, as she pressed closer to Blanche, "there is the dog
growling again. What can be the matter with him?"
"Spoil-sport, do not growl! Come hither," said Blanche, striking with her
little hand on the side of the bed.
The dog rose, again growled deeply, and came to lay his great,
intelligent looking head on the counterpane, still obstinately casting a
sidelong glance at the window; the sisters bent over him to pat his broad
forehead, in the centre of which was a remarkable bump, the certain sign
of extreme purity of race.
"What makes you growl so, Spoil-sport?" said Blanche, pulling him gently
by the ears--"eh, my good dog?"
"Poor beast! he is always so uneasy when Dagobert is away."
"It is true; one would think he knows that he then has a double charge over us."
"Sister, it seems to me, Dagobert is late in coming to say good-night."
"No doubt he is attending to Jovial."
"That makes me think that we did not bid good-night to dear old Jovial. "I am sorry for it."
"Poor beast! he seems so glad when he licks our hands. One would think
that he thanked us for our visit."
"Luckily, Dagobert will have wished him good-night for us."
"Good Dagobert! he is always thinking of us. How he spoils us! We remain
idle, and he has all the trouble."
"How can we prevent it?"
"What a pity that we are not rich, to give him a little rest."
"We rich! Alas, my sister! we shall never be anything but poor orphans."
"Oh, there's the medal!"
"Doubtless, there is some hope attached to it, else we should not have
made this long journey."
"Dagobert has promised to tell us all, this evening."
She was prevented from continuing, for two of the windowpanes flew to pieces with a loud crash.
The orphans, with a cry of terror, threw themselves into each other's
arms, whilst the dog rushed towards the window, barking furiously.
Pale, trembling, motionless with affright, clasping each other in a close
embrace, the two sisters held their breath; in their extreme fear, they
durst not even cast their eyes in the direction of the window. The dog,
with his forepaws resting on the sill, continued to bark with violence.
"Alas! what can it be?" murmured the orphans. "And Dagobert not here!"
"Hark!" cried Rose, suddenly seizing Blanche by the arm; "hark!--some one
coming up the stairs!"
"Good heaven! it does not sound like the tread of Dagobert. Do you not
hear what heavy footsteps?"
"Quick! come, Spoil-sport, and defend us!" cried the two sisters at once,
in an agony of alarm.
The boards of the wooden staircase really creaked beneath the weight of
unusually heavy footsteps, and a singular kind of rustling was heard
along the thin partition that divided the chamber from the landing-place.
Then a ponderous mass, falling against the door of the room, shook it
violently; and the girls, at the very height of terror, looked at each
other without the power of speech.
The door opened. It was Dagobert.
At the sight of him Rose and Blanche joyfully exchanged a kiss, as if
they had just escaped from a great danger.
"What is the matter? why are you afraid?" asked the soldier in surprise.
"Oh, if you only knew!" said Rose, panting as she spoke, for both her own
heart and her sister's beat with violence.
"If you knew what has just happened! We did not recognize your
footsteps--they seemed so heavy--and then that noise behind the partition!"
"Little frightened doves that you are! I could not run up the stairs like
a boy of fifteen, seeing that I carried my bed upon my back--a straw
mattress that I have just flung down before your door, to sleep there as usual."
"Bless me! how foolish we must be, sister, not to have thought of that!"
said Rose, looking at Blanche. And their pretty faces, which had together
grown pale, together resumed their natural color.
During this scene the dog, still resting against the window, did not
cease barking a moment.
"What makes Spoil-sport bark in that direction, my children?" said the soldier.
"We do not know. Two of our windowpanes have just been broken. That is
what first frightened us so much."
Without answering a word Dagobert flew to the window, opened it quickly,
pushed back the shutter, and leaned out.
He saw nothing; it was a dark night. He listened; but heard only the moaning of the wind.
"Spoil-sport," said he to his dog, pointing to the open window, "leap
out, old fellow, and search!" The faithful animal took one mighty spring
and disappeared by the window, raised only about eight feet above the ground.
Dagobert, still leaning over, encouraged his dog with voice and gesture:
"Search, old fellow, search! If there is any one there, pin him--your
fangs are strong--and hold him fast till I come."
But Spoil-sport found no one. They heard him go backwards and forwards,
snuffing on every side, and now and then uttering a low cry like a hound at fault.
"There is no one, my good dog, that's clear, or you would have had him by
the throat ere this." Then, turning to the maidens, who listened to his
words and watched his movements with uneasiness: "My girls," said he,
"how were these panes broken? Did you not remark?"
"No, Dagobert; we were talking together when we heard a great crash, and
then the glass fell into the room."
"It seemed to me," added Rose, "as if a shutter had struck suddenlya gainst the window."
Dagobert examined the shutter, and observed a long movable hook, designed
to fasten it on the inside.
"It blows hard," said he; "the wind must have swung round the shutter,
and this hook broke the window. Yes, yes; that is it. What interest could
anybody have to play such a sorry trick?" Then, speaking to Spoil sport,
he asked, "Well, my good fellow, is there no one?"
The dog answered by a bark, which the soldier no doubt understood as a
negative, for he continued: "Well, then, come back! Make the round--you
will find some door open--you are never at a loss."
The animal followed this advice. After growling for a few seconds beneath
the window, he set off at a gallop to make the circuit of the buildings,
and come back by the court-yard.
"Be quite easy, my children!" said the soldier, as he again drew near the
orphans; "it was only the wind."
"We were a good deal frightened," said Rose.
"I believe you. But now I think of it, this draught is likely to give you
cold." And seeking to remedy this inconvenience, he took from a chair the
reindeer pelisse, and suspended it from the spring-catch of the
curtainless window, using the skirts to stop up as closely as possible
the two openings made by the breaking of the panes.
"Thanks, Dagobert, how good you are! We were very uneasy at not seeing you."
"Yes, you were absent longer than usual. But what is the matter with
you?" added Rose, only just then perceiving that his countenance was
disturbed and pallid, for he was still under the painful influence of the
brawl with Morok; "how pale you are!"
"Me, my pets?--Oh, nothing."
"Yes, I assure you, your countenance is quite changed. Rose is right."
"I tell you there is nothing the matter," answered the soldier, not
without some embarrassment, for he was little used to deceive; till,
finding an excellent excuse for his emotion, he added: "If I do look at
all uncomfortable, it is your fright that has made me so, for indeed it was my fault."
"Your fault!"
"Yes; for if I had not lost so much time at supper, I should have been
here when the window was broken, and have spared you the fright."
"Anyhow, you are here now, and we think no more of it."
"Why don't you sit down?"
"I will, my children, for we have to talk together," said Dagobert, as he
drew a chair close to the head of the bed.
"Now tell me, are you quite awake?" he added, trying to smile in order to
reassure them. "Are those large eyes properly open?"
"Look, Dagobert!" cried the two girls, smiling in their turn, and opening
their blue eyes to the utmost extent.
"Well, well," said the soldier, "they are yet far enough, from shutting;
besides, it is only nine o'clock."
"We also have something to tell, Dagobert," resumed Rose, after
exchanging glances with her sister.
"Indeed!"
"A secret to tell you."
"A secret?"
"Yes, to be sure."
"Ah, and a very great secret!" added Rose, quite seriously.
"A secret which concerns us both," resumed Blanche.
"Faith! I should think so. What concerns the one always concerns the
other. Are you not always, as the saying goes, 'two faces under one hood?'"
"Truly, how can it be otherwise, when you put our heads under the great
hood of your pelisse?" said Rose, laughing.
"There they are again, mocking-birds! One never has the last word with
them. Come, ladies, your secret, since a secret there is."
"Speak, sister," said Rose.
"No, miss, it is for you to speak. You are to-day on duty, as eldest, and
such an important thing as telling a secret like that you talk of belongs
of right to the elder sister. Come, I am listening to you," added the
soldier, as he forced a smile, the better to conceal from the maidens how
much he still felt the unpunished affronts of the brute tamer.
It was Rose (who, as Dagobert said, was doing duty as eldest) that spoke
for herself and for her sister.

CHAPTER IV. MOROK and DAGOBERT

Goliath had not been mistaken, for Dagobert was washing with that imperturbable gravity with which he did everything else. When we remember the habits of a soldier a-field, we need not be astonished at this apparent eccentricity. Dagobert only thought of sparing the scanty purse of the orphans, and of saving them all care and trouble; so every evening when they came to a halt he devoted himself to all sorts of feminine occupations. But he was not now serving his apprenticeship in these matters; many times, during his campaigns, he had industriously repaired the damage and disorder which a day of battle always brings to the garments of the soldier; for it is not enough to receive a sabre-cut--the soldier has also to mend his uniform; for the stroke which grazes the skin makes likewise a corresponding fissure in the cloth.
Therefore, in the evening or on the morrow of a hard-fought engagement, you will see the best soldiers (always distinguished by their fine military appearance) take from their cartridge-box or knapsack a housewife, furnished with needles, thread, scissors, buttons, and other such gear, and apply themselves to all kinds of mending and darning, with a zeal that the most industrious workwoman might envy. We could not find a better opportunity to explain the name of Dagobert, given to Francis Baudoin (the guide of the orphans) at a time when he was considered one of the handsomest and bravest horse-grenadiers of the Imperial Guard.
They had been fighting hard all day, without any decisive advantage. In the evening, the company to which our hero belonged was sent as outliers to occupy the ruins of a deserted village. Videttes being posted, half the troopers remained in saddle, whilst the others, having picketed their horses, were able to take a little rest. Our hero had charged valiantly that day without receiving any wound--for he counted as a mere memento the deep scratch on his thigh, which a kaiserlitz had inflicted in awkwardly attempting an upward thrust with the bayonet.
"You donkey! my new breeches!" the grenadier had exclaimed, when he saw the wide yawning rent, which he instantly avenged by running the Austrian through, with a thrust scientifically administered. For, if he showed a
stoical indifference on the subject of injury to his skin, it was not so with regard to the ripping up of his best parade uniform. He undertook, therefore, the same evening, at the bivouac, to repair this accident. Selecting his best needle and thread from the stores of his housewife, and arming his finger with a thimble, he began to play the
tailor by the light of the watch-fire, having first drawn off his cavalry-boots, and also (if it must be confessed) the injured garment itself, which he turned the wrong side out the better to conceal the stitches. This partial undress was certainly a breach of discipline: but the captain, as he went his round, could not forbear laughing at the sight of the veteran soldier, who, gravely seated, in a squatting position, with his grenadier cap on, his regimental coat on his back, his boots by his side, and his galligaskins in his lap, was sewing with all the coolness of a tailor upon his own shop-board. Suddenly, a musket-shot is heard, and the videttes fall back upon the detachment, calling to arms. "To horse!" cries the captain, in a voice of thunder. In a moment, the troopers are in their saddles, the unfortunate clothes mender having to lead the first rank; there is no time to turn the unlucky garment, so he slips it on, as well as he can, wrong side out, and leaps upon his horse, without even stopping to put on his boots.A party of Cossacks, profiting by the cover of a neighboring wood, had attempted to surprise the detachment: the fight was bloody, and our hero foamed with rage, for he set much value on his equipments, and the day had been fatal to him. Thinking of his torn clothes and lost boots, he hacked away with more fury than ever; a bright moon illumined the scene of action, and his comrades were able to appreciate the brilliant valor of our grenadier, who killed two Cossacks, and took an officer prisoner, with his own hand. After this skirmish, in which the detachment had maintained its position, the captain drew up his men to compliment them on their success, and
ordered the clothes-mender to advance from the ranks, that he might thank him publicly for his gallant behavior. Our hero could have dispensed with this ovation, but he was not the less obliged to obey. Judge of the surprise of both captain and troopers, when they saw this tall and stern-looking figure ride forward at a slow pace, with his naked feet in the stirrups, and naked legs pressing the sides of his charger. The captain drew near in astonishment; but recalling the occupation of the soldier at the moment when the alarm was given, he understood the whole mystery. "Ha, my old comrade!" he exclaimed, "thou art like King Dagobert--wearing thy breeches inside out." In spite of discipline, this joke of the captain's was received with peals of ill-repressed laughter. But our friend, sitting upright in his saddle, with his left thumb pressing the well adjusted reins, and his sword-hilt carried close to his right thigh, made a half-wheel, and returned to his place in the ranks without changing countenance, after he had duly received the congratulations of his captain. From that day, Francis Baudoin received and kept the nickname of Dagobert. Now Dagobert was under the porch of the inn, occupied in washing, to the great amazement of sundry beer-drinkers, who observed him with curious eyes from the large common room in which they were assembled. In truth, it was a curious spectacle. Dagobert had laid aside his gray top-coat, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt; with a vigorous hand, and good supply of soap, he was rubbing away at a wet handkerchief, spread out on the board, the end of which rested in a tub full of water.
Upon his right arm, tattooed with warlike emblems in red and blue colors, two scars, deep enough to admit the finger, were distinctly visible. No wonder then, that, while smoking their pipes, and emptying their pots of
beer, the Germans should display some surprise at the singular occupation of this tall, moustached, bald-headed old man, with the forbidding countenance--for the features of Dagobert assumed a harsh and grim expression, when he was no longer in presence of the two girls. The sustained attention, of which he saw himself the object, began to put him out of patience, for his employment appeared to him quite natural. At this moment, the Prophet entered the porch, and, perceiving the soldier, eyed him attentively for several seconds; then approaching, he said to him in French, in a rather sly tone: "It would seem, comrade, that you have not much confidence in the washerwomen of Mockern?" Dagobert, without discontinuing his work, half turned his head with a frown, looked askant at the Prophet, and made him no answer. Astonished at this silence, Morok resumed: "If I do not deceive myself, you are French, my fine fellow. The words on your arm prove it, and your military air stamps you as an old soldier of the Empire. Therefore I find, that, for a hero, you have taken rather late to wear petticoats."
Dagobert remained mute, but he gnawed his moustache, and plied the soap, with which he was rubbing the linen, in a most hurried, not to say angry style; for the face and words of the beast-tamer displeased him more than
he cared to show. Far from being discouraged, the Prophet continued: "I am sure, my fine fellow, that you are neither deaf nor dumb; why, then, will you not answer me?" Losing all patience, Dagobert turned abruptly round, looked Morok full in the face, and said to him in a rough voice: "I don't know you: I don't wish to know you! Chain up your curb!" And he betook himself again to his washing. "But we may make acquaintance. We can drink a glass of Rhine-wine together, and talk of our campaigns. I also have seen some service, I assure you; and that, perhaps, will induce you to be more civil." The veins on the bald forehead of Dagobert swelled perceptibly; he saw in the look and accent of the man, who thus obstinately addressed him, something designedly provoking; still he contained himself. "I ask you, why should you not drink a glass of wine with me--we could talk about France. I lived there a long time; it is a fine country; and when I meet Frenchmen abroad, I feel sociable--particularly when they know how to use the soap as well as you do. If I had a housewife I'd send her to your school."
The sarcastic meaning was no longer disguised; impudence and bravado were legible in the Prophet's looks. Thinking that, with such an adversary, the dispute might become serious, Dagobert, who wished to avoid a quarrel at any price, carried off his tub to the other end of the porch, hoping thus to put an end to the scene which was a sore trial of his temper. A flash of joy lighted up the tawny eyes of the brute-tamer. The white
circle, which surrounded the pupil seemed to dilate. He ran his crooked fingers two or three times through his yellow beard, in token of satisfaction; then he advanced slowly towards the soldier, accompanied by several idlers from the common-room. Notwithstanding his coolness, Dagobert, amazed and incensed at the impudent pertinacity of the Prophet, was at first disposed to break the washing-board on his head; but, remembering the orphans, he thought better of it. Folding his arms upon his breast, Morok said to him, in a dry and insolent tone: "It is very certain you are not civil, my man of suds!" Then, turning to the spectators, he continued in German: "I tell this Frenchman, with his long moustache, that he is not civil. We shall see what answer he'll make. Perhaps it will be necessary to give him a lesson. Heaven preserve me from quarrels!" he added, with mock compunction; "but the Lord has enlightened me--I am his creature, and I ought to make his work respected." The mystical effrontery of this peroration was quite to the taste of the idlers; the fame of the Prophet had reached Mockern, and, as a performance was expected on the morrow, this prelude much amused the company. On hearing the insults of his adversary, Dagobert could not help saying in the German language: "I know German. Speak in German--the rest will understand you." New spectators now arrived, and joined the first comers; the adventure
had become exciting, and a ring was formed around the two persons most concerned.
The Prophet resumed in German: "I said that you were not civil, and I now say you are grossly rude. What do you answer to that?" "Nothing!" said Dagobert, coldly, as he proceeded to rinse out another piece of linen.
"Nothing!" returned Morok; "that is very little. I will be less brief, and tell you, that, when an honest man offers a glass of wine civilly to a stranger, that stranger has no right to answer with insolence, and deserves to be taught manners if he does so." Great drops of sweat ran down Dagobert's forehead and cheeks; his large imperial was incessantly agitated by nervous trembling--but he restrained himself. Taking, by two of the corners, the handkerchief which he had just dipped in the water, he shook it, wrung it, and began to hum to himself the burden of the old camp ditty: "Out of Tirlemont's flea-haunted den, We ride forth next day of the sen,
With sabre in hand, ah! Good-bye to Amanda," etc. The silence to which Dagobert had condemned himself, almost choked him; this song afforded him some relief. Morok, turning towards the spectators, said to them, with an air of hypocritical restraint: "We knew that the soldiers of Napoleon were pagans, who stabled their horses in churches, and offended the Lord a hundred times a day, and who, for their sins, were justly drowned in the Beresino, like so many Pharaohs; but we did not know that the Lord, to punish these miscreants, had deprived them of courage--their single gift. Here is a man, who has insulted, in me, a creature favored by divine grace, and who affects not to understand that I require an apology; or else--" "What?" said Dagobert, without looking at the Prophet. "Or you must give me satisfaction!--I have already told you that I have seen service. We shall easily find somewhere a couple of swords, and to morrow morning, at peep of day, we can meet behind a wall, and show the color of our blood--that is, if you have any in your veins!" This challenge began to frighten the spectators, who were not prepared for so tragical a conclusion."What, fight?--a very, fine idea!" said one. "To get yourself both locked up in prison: the laws against duelling are strict." "Particularly with relation to strangers or ondescripts," added another. "If they were to find you with arms in your hands, the burgomaster would shut you up in jail, and keep you there two or three months before trial." "Would you be so mean as to denounce us?" asked Morok. "No, certainly not," cried several; "do as you like. We are only giving you a friendly piece of advice, by which you may profit, if you think fit." "What care I for prison?" exclaimed the Prophet. "Only give me a couple of swords, and you shall see to-morrow morning if I heed what the burgomaster can do or say."
"What would you do with two swords?" asked Dagobert, quietly. "When you have one in your grasp, and I one in mine, you'd see. The Lord commands us to have a care of his honor!" Dagobert shrugged his shoulders, made a bundle of his linen in his handkerchief, dried his soap, and put it carefully into a little oil-silk bag--then, whistling his favorite air of Tirlemont, moved to depart. The Prophet frowned; he began to fear that his challenge would not be accepted. He advanced a step or so to encounter Dagobert, placed himself before him, as if to intercept his passage, and, folding his arms, and scanning him from head to foot with bitter insolence, said to him: "So! an old soldier of that arch-robber, Napoleon, is only fit for a washerwoman, and refuses to fight!" "Yes, he refuses to fight," answered Dagobert, in a firm voice, but becoming fearfully pale. Never, perhaps, had the soldier given to his orphan charge such a proof of tenderness and devotion. For a man of his character to let himself be nsulted with impunity, and refuse to fight--the sacrifice was immense. "So you are a coward--you are afraid of me--and you confess it?" At these words Dagobert made, as it were, a pull upon himself--as if a sudden thought had restrained him the moment he was about to rush on the Prophet. Indeed, he had remembered the two maidens, and the fatal hindrance which a duel, whatever might be the result, would occasion to their journey. But the mpulse of anger, though rapid, had been so significant--the expression of the stern, pale face, bathed in sweat, was so daunting, that the Prophet and the spectators drew back a step. Profound silence reigned for some seconds, and then, by a sudden reaction, Dagobert seemed to have gained the general interest. One of the
company said to those near him; "This man is clearly not a coward." "Oh, no! certainly not." "It sometimes requires more courage to refuse a challenge than to accept one." "After all the Prophet was wrong to pick a quarrel about nothing--and with a stranger, too." "Yes, for a stranger, if he fought and was taken up, would have a good long imprisonment." "And then, you see," added another, "he travels with two young girls. In such a position, ought a man to fight about trifles? If he should be killed or put in prison, what would become of them, poor children?" Dagobert turned towards the person who had pronounced these last words. He saw a stout fellow, with a frank and simple countenance; the soldier offered him his hand, and said with emotion: "Thank you, sir." The German shook cordially the hand, which Dagobert had proffered, and, holding it still in his own, he dded: "Do one thing, sir--share a bowl of punch with us. We will make that mischief-making Prophet knowledge
that he has been too touchy, and he shall drink to your health." Up to this moment the brute-tamer, enraged at the issue of this scene, for he had hoped that the soldier would accept his challenge, looked on with savage contempt at those who had thus sided against him. But now his features gradually relaxed; and, believing it useful to his projects to hide his disappointment, he walked up to the soldier, and said to him, with a tolerably good grace: "Well, I give way to these gentlemen. I own I was wrong. Your frigid air had wounded me, and I was not master of myself. I repeat, that I was wrong," he added, with suppressed vexation; "the Lord commands humility--and--I beg your pardon." This proof of moderation and regret was highly appreciated and loudly applauded by the spectators. "He asks your pardon; you cannot expect more, my brave fellow?" said one of them, addressing Dagobert. "Come, let us all drink together; we make you this offer frankly--accept it in the same spirit." "Yes, yes; accept it, we beg you, in the name of your pretty little girls," said the stout man, hoping to decide Dagobert by this argument. "Many thanks, gentlemen," replied he, touched by the hearty advances of the Germans; "you are very worthy people. But, when one is treated, he must offer drink in return." "Well, we will accept it--that's understood. Each his turn, and all fair. We will pay for the first bowl, you for the second." "Poverty is no crime," answered Dagobert; "and I must tell you honestly that I cannot afford to pay for drink. We have still a long journey to go, and I must not incur any useless expenses." The soldier spoke these words with such firm, but simple dignity, that the Germans did not venture to renew their offer, feeling that a man of Dagobert's character could not accept it without humiliation. "Well, so much the worse," said the stout man. "I should have liked to clink glasses with you. Good-night, my brave trooper!--Good-night--for it grows late, and mine host of the Falcon will soon turn us out of doors." "Good-night, gentlemen," replied Dagobert, as he directed his steps towards the stable, to give his horse a second allowance of provender.
Morok approached him, and said in a voice even more humble than before: "I have acknowledged my error, and asked your pardon. You have not answered me; do you still bear malice?" "If ever I meet you," said the veteran, in a suppressed and hollow tone,
"when my children have no longer need of me, I will just say two words to you, and they will not be long ones."
Then he turned his back abruptly on the Prophet, who walked slowly out of the yard. The inn of the White Falcon formed a parallelogram. At one end rose the principal dwelling; at the other was a range of buildings, which contained sundry chambers, let at a low price to the poorer sort of travellers; a vaulted passage opened a way through this latter into the country; finally, on either side of the court-yard were sheds and stables, with lofts and garrets erected over them. Dagobert, entering one of these stables, took from off a chest the portion of oats destined for his horse, and, pouring it into a winnowing basket, shook it as he approached Jovial. To his great astonishment, his old travelling companion did not respond with a joyous neigh to the rustle of the oats rattling on the wicker work. Alarmed, he called Jovial with a friendly voice; but the animal, instead of turning towards his master a look of intelligence, and impatiently striking the ground with his fore-feet, remained perfectly motionless.
More and more surprised, the soldier went up to him. By the dubious light of a stable-lantern, he saw the poor animal in an attitude which implied terror--his legs half bent, his head stretched forward, his ears down, his nostrils quivering; he had drawn tight his halter, as if he wished to break it, in order to get away from the partition that supported his rack and manger; abundant cold-sweat had speckled his hide with bluish stains, and his coat altogether looked dull and bristling, instead of standing out sleek and glossy from the dark background of the stable; lastly, from time to time, his body shook with convulsive starts. "Why, old Jovial!" said the soldier, as he put down the basket, in order to soothe his horse with more freedom, "you are like thy master--afraid!--Yes," he added with bitterness, as he thought of the offence he had himself endured, "you are afraid--though no coward in general." Notwithstanding the caresses and the voice of his master, the horse continued to give signs of terror; he pulled somewhat less violently at his halter, and approaching his nostrils to the hand of Dagobert, sniffed audibly, as if he doubted it were he. "You don't know me!" cried Dagobert. "Something extraordinary must be passing here." The soldier looked around him with uneasiness. It was a large stable, faintly lighted by the lantern suspended from the roof, which was covered with innumerable cobwebs; at the further end, separated from Jovial by some stalls with bars between, were the three strong, black, horses of the brute-tamer--as tranquil as Jovial was frightened. Dagobert, struck with this singular contrast, of which he was soon to have the explanation, again caressed his horse; and the animal, gradually reassured by his master's presence, licked his hands, rubbed his head against him, uttered a low neigh, and gave him his usual tokens of affection. "Come, come, this is how I like to see my old Jovial!" said Dagobert, as he took up the winnowing-basket, and poured its contents into the manger. "Now eat with a good appetite, for we have a long day's march tomorrow; and, above all, no more of these foolish fears about nothing! If thy comrade, Spoil-sport, was here, he would keep you in heart; but he is
along with the children, and takes care of them in my absence. Come, eat! Instead of staring at me in that way."
But the horse, having just touched the oats with his mouth, as if in obedience to his master, returned to them no more, and began to nibble at the sleeve of Dagobert's coat. "Come, come, my poor Jovial! there is something the matter with you. You have generally such a good appetite, and now you leave your corn. 'Tis the first time this has happened since our departure," said the soldier, who was now growing seriously uneasy, for the issue of his journey greatly depended on the health and vigor of his horse. Just then a frightful roaring, so near that it seemed to come from the stable in which they were, gave so violent a shock to Jovial, that with one effort he broke his halter, leaped over the bar that marked his place, and rushing at the open door, escaped into the court-yard.
Dagobert had himself started at the suddenness of this wild and fearful sound, which at once explained to him the cause of his horse's terror. The adjoining stable was occupied by the itinerant menagerie of the brute-tamer, and was only separated by the partition, which supported the mangers. The three horses of the Prophet, accustomed to these howlings, had remained perfectly quiet. "Good!" said the soldier, recovering himself; "I understand it now. Jovial has heard another such roar before, and he can scent the animals of that insolent scoundrel. It is enough to frighten him," added he, as he carefully collected the oats from the manger; "once in another stable,
and there must be others in this place, he will no longer leave his peck, and we shall be able to start early to-morrow morning!" The terrified horse, after running and galloping about the yard, returned at the voice of the soldier, who easily caught him by the broken halter; and a hostler, whom Dagobert asked if there was another vacant stable, having pointed out one that was only intended for a single animal, Jovial was comfortably installed there. When delivered from his ferocious neighbors, the horse became tranquil as before, and even amused himself much at the expense of Dagobert's top coat, which, thanks to his tricks, might have afforded immediate
occupation for his master's needle, if the latter had not been fully engaged in admiring the eagerness with which Jovial dispatched his provender. Completely reassured on his account, the soldier shut the door of the stable, and proceeded to get his supper as quickly as possible, in order to rejoin the orphans, whom he reproached himself with having left so long

CHAPTER III. THE ARRIVAL.

Already had Morok several times opened with impatience the windowshutters of the loft, to look out upon the inn-yard, watching for thearrival of the orphans and the soldier. Not seeing them, he began once more to walk slowly up and down, with his head bent forward, and his arms folded on his bosom, meditating on the best means to carry out the plan he had conceived. The ideas which possessed his mind, were, doubtless, of a painful character, for his countenance grew even more gloomy thanusual.

Notwithstanding his ferocious appearance, he was by no means deficient in intelligence. The courage displayed in his taming exercises (which he gravely attributed to his recent conversion), a solemn and mystical style of speech, and a hypocritical affectation of austerity, had given him a species of influence over the people he visited in his travels. Long before his conversion, as may well be supposed, Morok had been familiar with the habits of wild beasts. In fact born in the north of Siberia, he had been, from his boyhood, one of the boldest hunters of bears and reindeer; later, in 1810, he had abandoned this profession, to serve as guide to a Russian engineer, who was charged with an exploring expedition to the Polar regions. He afterwards followed him to St. Petersburg, and there, after some vicissitudes of fortune, Morok became one of the imperial couriers--these iron automata, that the least caprice of the despot hurls in a frail sledge through the immensity of the empire, from Persia to the Frozen Sea. For these men, who travel night and day, with the rapidity of lightning there are neither seasons nor obstacles, fatigues nor danger; living projectiles, they must either be broken to pieces, or reach the intended mark. One may conceive the boldness, the vigor, and the resignation, of men accustomed to such a life.

It is useless to relate here, by what series of singular circumstances Morok was induced to exchange his rough pursuit for another profession, and at last to enter, as catechumen, a religious house at Friburg; after which, being duly and properly converted, he began his nomadic excursions, with his menagerie of unknown origin.

Morok continued to walk up and down the loft. Night had come. The three persons whose arrival he so impatiently expected had not yet made their appearance. His walk became more and more nervous and irregular.

On a sudden he stopped abruptly; leaned his head towards the window; and listened. His ear was quick as a savage's.

"They are here!" he exclaimed and his fox like eye shone with diabolic joy. He had caught the sound of footsteps--a man's and a horse's. Hastening to the window-shutter of the loft, he opened it cautiously, and saw the two young girls on horseback, and the old soldier who served them as a guide, enter the inn-yard together.

The night had set in, dark and cloudy; a high wind made the lights flicker in the lanterns which were used to receive the new guests. But the description given to Morok had been so exact, that it was impossible to mistake them. Sure of his prey, he closed the window. Having remained in meditation for another quarter of an hour--for the purpose, no doubt of thoroughly digesting his projects--he leaned over the aperture, from which projected the ladder, and called, "Goliath!"

"Master!" replied a hoarse voice.

"Come up to me."

"Here I am--just come from the slaughter-house with the meat."

The steps of the ladder creaked as an enormous head appeared on a level with the floor. The new-comer, who was more than six feet high, and gifted with herculean proportions, had been well-named Goliath. He was hideous. His squinting eyes were deep set beneath a low and projecting forehead; his reddish hair and beard, thick and coarse as horse-hair, gave his features a stamp of bestial ferocity; between his broad jaws, armed with teeth which resembled fangs, he held by one corner a piece of raw beef weighing ten or twelve pounds, finding it, no doubt, easier to carry in that fashion, whilst he used his hands to ascend the ladder,which bent beneath his weight.

At length the whole of this tall and huge body issued from the aperture. Judging by his bull-neck, the astonishing breadth of his chest and shoulders, and the vast bulk of his arms and legs, this giant need not have feared to wrestle single-handed with a bear. He wore an old pair of blue trousers with red stripes, faced with tanned sheep's-skin, and a vest, or rather cuirass, of thick leather, which was here and there slashed by the sharp claws of the animals.

When he was fairly on the floor, Goliath unclasped his fangs, opened his mouth, and let fall the great piece of beef, licking his blood-stained lips with greediness. Like many other mountebanks, this species of monster had began by eating raw meat at the fairs for the amusement of the public. Thence having gradually acquired a taste for this barbarous food, and uniting pleasure with profit, he engaged himself to perform the prelude to the exercises of Morok, by devouring, in the presence of the crowd, several pounds of raw flesh.

"My share and Death's are below stairs, and here are those of Cain and Judas," said Goliath, pointing to the chunk of beef. "Where is the cleaver, that I may cut it in two?--No preference here--beast or man--every gullet must have it's own."

Then, rolling up one of the sleeves of his vest, he exhibited a fore-arm hairy as skin of a wolf, and knotted with veins as large as one's thumb.

"I say, master, where's the cleaver?"--He again began, as he cast round his eyes in search of that instrument. But instead of replying to this inquiry, the Prophet put many questions to his disciple.

"Were you below when just now some new travellers arrived at the inn?"

"Yes, master; I was coming from the slaughter-house."

"Who are these travellers?"

"Two young lasses mounted on a white horse, and an old fellow with a big moustache. But the cleaver?--my beasts are hungry and so am I--the cleaver!"

"Do you know where they have lodged these travellers?"

"The host took them to the far end of the court-yard."

"The building, which overlooks the fields?"

"Yes, master--but the cleaver--"

A burst of frightful roaring shook the loft, and interrupted Goliath.

"Hark to them!" he exclaimed; "hunger has driven the beasts wild. If I could roar, I should do as they do. I have never seen Judas and Cain as they are to-night; they leap in their cages as if they'd knock all to pieces. As for Death, her eyes shine more than usual like candles--poor Death!"

"So these girls are lodged in the building at the end of the court-yard," resumed Morok, without attending to the observations of Goliath.

"Yes, yes--but in the devil's name, where is the cleaver? Since Karl went away I have to do all the work, and that makes our meals very late."

"Did the old man remain with the young girls?" asked Morok.

Goliath, amazed that, notwithstanding his importunities, his master should still appear to neglect the animals' supper, regarded the Prophet with an increase of stupid astonishment.

"Answer, you brute!"

"If I am a brute, I have a brute's strength," said Goliath, in a surly tone, "and brute against brute, I have not always come the worst off."

"I ask if the old man remained with the girls," repeated Morok.

"Well, then--no!" returned the giant. "The old man, after leading his horse to the stable, asked for a tub and some water, took his stand under the porch--and there--by the light of a lantern--he is washing out clothes. A man with a gray moustache!--paddling in soap-suds like a

washerwoman--it's as if I were to feed canaries!" added Goliath, shrugging his shoulders with disdain. "But now I've answered you, master, let me attend to the beasts' supper,"--and, looking round for something, he added, "where is the cleaver?"

After a moment of thoughtful silence, the Prophet said to Goliath, "You will give no food to the beasts this evening."

At first the giant could not understand these words, the idea was so incomprehensible to him.

"What is your pleasure, master?" said he.

"I forbid you to give any food to the beasts this evening."

Goliath did not answer, but he opened wide his squinting eyes, folded his hands, and drew back a couple of steps.

"Well, dost hear me?" said Morok, with impatience. "Is it plain enough?"

"Not feed? when our meat is there, and supper is already three hours after time!" cried Goliath, with ever-increasing amazement.

"Obey, and hold your tongue."

"You must wish something bad to happen this evening. Hunger makes the beasts furious--and me also."

"So much the better!"

"It'll drive 'em mad."

"So much the better!"

"How, so much the better?--But--"

"It is enough!"

"But, devil take me, I am as hungry as the beasts!"

"Eat then--who prevents it? Your supper is ready, as you devour it raw."

"I never eat without my beasts, nor they without me."

"I tell you again, that, if you dare give any food to the beasts--I will turn you away."

Goliath uttered a low growl as hoarse as a bear's, and looked at the Prophet with a mixture of anger and stupefaction.

Morok, having given his orders, walked up and down the loft, appearing to reflect. Then, addressing himself to Goliath, who was still plunged in deep perplexity, he said to him.

"Do you remember the burgomaster's, where I went to get my passport signed?--To-day his wife bought some books and a chaplet."

"Yes," answered the giant shortly.

"Go and ask his servant if I may be sure to find the burgomaster early to-morrow morning."

"What for?"

"I may, perhaps, have something important to communicate; at all events, say that I beg him not to leave home without seeing me."

"Good! but may I feed the beasts before I go to the burgomaster's?--only the panther, who is most hungry? Come, master; only poor Death? just a little morsel to satisfy her; Cain and I and Judas can wait."

"It is the panther, above all, that I forbid you to feed. Yes, her, above all the rest." "By the horns of the devil!" cried Goliath, "what is the matter with you to-day? I can make nothing of it. It is a pity that Karl's not here; he, being cunning, would help me to understand why you prevent the beasts

"You have no need to understand it."

"Will not Karl soon come back?"

"He has already come back."

"Where is he, then?"

"Off again."

"What can be going on here? There is something in the wind. Karl goes, and returns, and goes again, and--"

"We are not talking of Karl, but of you; though hungry as a wolf you are cunning as a fox, and, when it suits you, as cunning as Karl." And, changing on the sudden his tone and manner, Morok slapped the giant cordially on the shoulder. from eating when they are hungry."

"What! am I cunning?"

"The proof is, that there are ten florins to earn to-night--and you will be keen enough to earn them, I am sure."

"Why, on those terms, yes--I am awake," said the giant, smiling with a stupid, self-satisfied air. "What must I do for ten florins?"

"You shall see."

"Is it hard work?"

"You shall see. Begin by going to the burgomaster's--but first light the fire in that stove." He pointed to it with his finger.

"Yes, master," said Goliath, somewhat consoled for the delay of hissupper by the hope of gaining ten florins.

"Put that iron bar in the stove," added the Prophet, "to make it red-hot."

"Yes, master."

"You will leave it there; go to the burgomaster's, and return here to wait for me."

"Yes, master.

"You will keep the fire up in the stove."

"Yes, master."

Morok took a step away, but recollecting himself, he resumed: "You say the old man is busy washing under the porch?"

"Yes, master."

"Forget nothing: the iron bar in the fire--the burgomaster--and return here to wait my orders." So saying, Morok descended by the trap-door and disappeared.

CHAPTER II. THE TRAVELLERS

While the above scene was passing in the White Falcon at Mockern, the three persons whose arrival Morok was so anxiously expecting, travelled on leisurely in the midst of smiling meadows, bounded on one side by a river, the current of which turned a mill; and on the other by the highway leading to the village, which was situated on an eminence, at about a league's distance. The sky was beautifully serene; the bubbling of the river, beaten by the mill-wheel and sparkling with foam, alone broke upon the silence of an evening profoundly calm. Thick willows, bending over the river, covered it with their green transparent shadow; whilst, further on, the stream reflected so splendidly the blue heavens and the glowing tints of the west, that, but for the hills which rose between it and the sky, the gold and azure of the water would have mingled in one dazzling sheet with the gold and azure of the firmament. The tall reeds on the bank bent their black velvet heads beneath the light breath of the breeze that rises at the close of day--for the sun was gradually sinking behind a broad streak of purple clouds, fringed with fire. The tinkling bells of a flock of sheep sounded from afar in the clear and sonorous air. Along a path trodden in the grass of the meadow, two girls, almost children--for they had but just completed their fifteenth year--were riding on a white horse of medium size, seated upon a large saddle with a back to it, which easily took them both in, for their figures were slight and delicate. A man of tall stature, with a sun-burnt face, and long gray moustache, was leading the horse by the bridle, and ever and anon turned towards the girls, with an air of solicitude at once respectful and paternal. He leaned upon a long staff; his still robust shoulders carried a soldier's knapsack; his dusty shoes, and step that began to drag a little, showed that he had walked a long way. One of those dogs which the tribes of Northern Siberia harness to their sledges--a sturdy animal, nearly of the size, form, and hairy coat of the wolf--followed closely in the steps of the leader of this little caravan, never quitting, as it is commonly said, the heels of his master. Nothing could be more charming than the group formed by the girls. One held with her left hand the flowing reins, and with her right encircled the waist of her sleeping sister, whose head reposed on her shoulder. Each step of the horse gave a graceful swaying to these pliant forms, and swung their little feet, which rested on a wooden ledge in lieu of a stirrup. These twin sisters, by a sweet maternal caprice, had been called Rose and Blanche; they were now orphans, as might be seen by their sad mourning vestments, already much worn. Extremely, like in feature, and of the same size, it was necessary to be in the constant habit of seeing them, to distinguish one from the other. The portrait of her who slept not, might serve them for both of them; the only difference at the moment being, that Rose was awake and discharging for that day the duties of elder sister--duties thus divided between then, according to the fancy of their guide, who, being an old soldier of the empire, and a martinet, had judged fit thus to alternate obedience and command between the orphans. Greuze would have been inspired by the sight of those sweet faces, coifed in close caps of black velvet, from beneath which strayed a profusion of thick ringlets of a light chestnut color, floating down their necks and shoulders, and setting, as in a frame, their round, firm, rosy, satin like cheeks. A carnation, bathed in dew, is of no richer softness than their blooming lips; the wood violet's tender blue would appear dark beside the limpid azure of their large eyes, in which are depicted the sweetness of their characters, and the innocence of their age; a pure and white forehead, small nose, dimpled chin, complete these graceful countenances, which present a delightful blending of candor and gentleness. You should have seen them too, when, on the threatening of rain or storm, the old soldier carefully wrapped them both in a large pelisse of reindeer fur, and pulled over their heads the ample hood of this impervious garment; then nothing could be more lovely than those fresh and smiling little faces, sheltered beneath the dark-colored cowl. But now the evening was fine and calm; the heavy cloak hung in folds about the knees of the sisters, and the hood rested on the back of their saddle. Rose, still encircling with her right arm the waist of her sleeping sister, contemplated her with an expression of ineffable tenderness, akin to maternal; for Rose was the eldest for the day, and an elder sister is almost a mother. Not only, did the orphans idolize each other; but, by a psychological henomenon, frequent with twins, they were almost always simultaneously affected; the emotion of one was reflected instantly in the countenance of the other; the same cause would make both of them start or blush, so closely did their young hearts beat in unison; all ingenuous joys, all bitter griefs were mutually felt, and shared in a moment between them. In their infancy, simultaneously attacked by a severe illness, like two flowers on the same steam, they had drooped, grown pale, and languished together; but together also had they again found the pure, fresh hues of health. Need it be said, that those mysterious, indissoluble links which united the twins, could not have been broken without striking a mortal blow at the existence of the poor children? Thus the sweet birds called love-birds, only living in pairs, as if endowed with a common life, pine, despond, and die, when parted by a barbarous hand. The guide of the orphans, a man of about fifty-five, distinguished by his military air and gait, preserved the immortal type of the warriors of the republic and the empire--some heroic of the people, who became, in one campaign, the first soldiers in the world--to prove what the people can do, have done, and will renew, when the rulers of their choice place in them confidence, strength, and their hope. This soldier, guide of the sisters, and formerly a horse-grenadier of the Imperial Guard, had been nicknamed Dagobert. His grave, stern countenance was strongly marked; his long, gray, and thick moustache completely concealed his upper lip, and united with a large imperial, which almost covered his chin; his meagre cheeks, brick-colored, and tanned as parchment, were carefully shaven; thick eyebrows, still black, overhung and shaded his light blue eyes; gold ear-rings reached down to his white-edged military stock; his topcoat, of coarse gray cloth, was confined at the waist by a leathern belt; and a blue foraging cap, with a red tuft falling on his left shoulder, covered his bald head. Once endowed with the strength of Hercules, and having still the heart of a lion--kind and patient, because he was courageous and strong--Dagobert, notwithstanding his rough exterior, evinced for his orphan charges an exquisite solicitude, a watchful kindness, and a tenderness almost maternal. Yes, motherly; for the heroism of affection dwells alike in the mother's heart and the soldiers. Stoically calm, and repressing all emotion, the unchangeable coolness of Dagobert never failed him; and, though few were less given to drollery, he was now and then highly comic, by reason of the imperturbable gravity with which he did everything. From time to time, as they journeyed on, Dagobert would turn to bestow a caress or friendly word on the good white home upon which the orphans were mounted. Its furrowed sides and long teeth betrayed a venerable age. Two deep scars, one on the flank and the other on the chest, proved that his horse had been present in hot battles; nor was it without an act of pride that he sometimes shook his old military bridle, the brass stud of which was still adorned with an embossed eagle. His pace was regular, careful, and steady; his coat sleek, and his bulk moderate; the abundant foam, which covered his bit, bore witness to that health which horses acquire by the constant, but not excessive, labor of a long journey, performed by short stages. Although he had been more than six months on the road, this excellent animal carried the orphans, with a tolerably heavy portmanteau fastened to the saddle, as freely as on the day they started. If we have spoken of the excessive length of the horse's teeth--the unquestionable evidence of great age--it is chiefly because he often displayed them, for the sole purpose of acting up to his name (he was called Jovial), by playing a mischievous trick, of which the dog was the victim. This latter, who, doubtless for the sake of contrast, was called Spoil-sport (Rabat-joie), being always at his master's heels, found himself within the reach of Jovial, who from time to time nipped him delicately by the nape of the neck, lifted him from the ground, and carried him thus for a moment. The dog, protected by his thick coat, and no doubt long accustomed to the practical jokes of his companion, submitted to all this with stoical complacency; save that, when he thought the jest had lasted long enough, he would turn his head and growl. Jovial understood him at the first hint, and hastened to set him down again. At other times, just to avoid monotony, Jovial would gently bite the knapsack of the soldier, who seemed, as well as the dog, to be perfectly accustomed to his pleasantries. These details will give a notion of the excellent understanding that existed between the twin sisters, the old soldier, the horse, and the dog. The little caravan proceeded on its ways anxious to reach, before night the village of Mockern, which was now visible on the summit of a hill. Ever and anon, Dagobert looked around him, and seemed to be gathering up old recollections; by degrees, his countenance became clouded, and when he was at a little distance from the mill, the noise of which had arrested his attention, he stopped, and drew his long moustache several times between his finger and thumb, the only sign which revealed in him any strong and concentrated feeling. Jovial, having stopped short behind his master, Blanche, awakened suddenly by the shock, raised her head; her first look sought her sister, on whom she smiled sweetly; then both exchanged glances of surprise, on seeing Dagobert motionless, with his hands clasped and resting on his long staff, apparently affected by some painful and deep emotion. The orphans just chanced to be at the foot of a little mound, the summit of which was buried in the thick foliage of a huge oak, planted half way down the slope. Perceiving that Dagobert continued motionless and absorbed in thought, Rose leaned over her saddle, and, placing her little white hand on the shoulder of their guide, whose back was turned towards her, said to him, in a soft voice, "Whatever is the matter with you, Dagobert?" The veteran turned; to the great astonishment of the sisters, they perceived a large tear, which traced its humid furrow down his tanned cheek, and lost itself in his thick moustache. "You weeping--you!" cried Rose and Blanche together, deeply moved. "Tell us, we beseech, what is the matter?" After a moments hesitation, the soldier brushed his horny hand across his eyes, and said to the orphans in a faltering voice, whilst he pointed to the old oak beside them: "I shall make you sad, my poor children: and yet what I'm going to tell you has something sacred in it. Well, eighteen years ago, on the eve of the great battle of Leipsic, I carried your father to this very tree. He had two sabre-cuts on the head, a musket ball in his shoulder; and it was here that he and I--who had got two thrust of a lance for my share--were taken prisoners; and by whom, worse luck?--why, a renegado! By a Frenchman--an emigrant marquis, then colonel in the service of Russia--and who afterwards--but one day you shall know all." The veteran paused; then, pointing with his staff to the village of Mockern, he added: "Yes, yes, I can recognize the spot. Yonder are the heights where your brave father--who commanded us, and the Poles of the Guard--overthrew the Russian Cuirassiers, after having carried the battery. Ah, my children!" continued the soldier, with the utmost simplicity, "I wish you had, seen your brave father, at the head of our brigade of horse, rushing on in a desperate charge in the thick of a shower of shells!--There was nothing like it--not a soul so grand as he!" Whilst Dagobert thus expressed, in his own way, his regrets and recollections, the two orphans--by a spontaneous movement, glided gently from the horse, and holding each other by the hand, went together to kneel at the foot of the old oak. And there, closely pressed in each other's arms, they began to weep; whilst the soldier, standing behind them, with his hands crossed on his long staff, rested his bald front upon it. "Come, come you must not fret," said he softly, when, after a pause of a few minutes, he saw tears run down the blooming cheeks of Rose and Blanche, still on their knees. "Perhaps we may find General Simon in Paris," added he; "I will explain all that to you this evening at the inn. I purposely waited for this day, to tell you many things about your father; it was an idea of mine, because this day is a sort of anniversary." "We weep because we think also of our mother," said Rose. "Of our mother, whom we shall only see again in heaven," added Blanche. The soldier raised the orphans, took each by the hand, and gazing from one to the other with ineffable affection, rendered still the more touching by the contrast of his rude features, "You must not give way thus, my children," said he; "it is true your mother was the best of women. When she lived in Poland, they called her the Pearl of Warsaw--it ought to have been the Pearl of the Whole World--for in the whole world you could not have found her match. No--no!" The voice of Dagobert faltered; he paused, and drew his long gray moustache between finger and thumb, as was his habit. "Listen, my girls," he resumed, when he had mastered his emotion; "your mother could give you none but the best advice, eh?" "Yes Dagobert." "Well, what instructions did she give you before she died? To think often of her, but without grieving?" "It is true; she told us than our Father in heaven, always good to poor mothers whose children are left on earth, would permit her to hear us from above," said Blanche. "And that her eyes would be ever fixed upon us," added Rose. And the two, by a spontaneous impulse, replete with the most touching grace, joined hands, raised their innocent looks to heaven, and exclaimed, with that beautiful faith natural to their age: "Is it not so, mother?--thou seest us?--thou hearest us?" "Since your mother sees and hears you," said Dagobert, much moved, "do not grieve her by fretting. She forbade you to do so." "You are right, Dagobert. We will not cry any more."--And the orphans dried their eyes. Dagobert, in the opinion of the devout, would have passed for a very heathen. In Spain, he had found pleasure in cutting down those monks of all orders and colors, who, bearing crucifix in one hand, and poniard in the other, fought not for liberty--the Inquisition had strangled her centuries ago--but, for their monstrous privileges. Yet, in forty years, Dagobert had witnessed so many sublime and awful scenes--he had been so many times face to face with death--that the instinct of natural religion, common to every simple, honest heart, had always remained uppermost in his soul. Therefore, though he did not share in the consoling faith of the two sisters, he would have held as criminal any attempt to weaken its influence. Seeing them this downcast, he thus resumed: "That's right, my pretty ones: I prefer to hear you chat as you did this morning and yesterday--laughing at times, and answering me when I speak, instead of being so much engrossed with your own talk. Yes, yes, my little ladies! you seem to have had famous secrets together these last two days--so, much the better, if it amuses you." The sisters colored, and exchanged a subdued smile, which contrasted with the tears that yet filled their eyes, and Rose said to the soldier, with a little embarrassment. "No, I assure you, Dagobert, we talk of nothing in particular." "Well, well; I don't wish to know it. Come, rest yourselves, a few moments more, and then we must start again; for it grows late, and we have to reach Mockern before night, so that we may be early on the road to-morrow." "Have we still a long, long way to go?" asked Rose. "What, to reach Paris? Yes, my children; some hundred days' march. We don't travel quick, but we get on; and we travel cheap, because we have a light purse. A closet for you, a straw mattress and a blanket at your door for me, with Spoil-sport on my feet, and a clean litter for old Jovial, these are our whole traveling expenses. I say nothing about food, because you two together don't eat more than a mouse, and I have learnt in Egypt and Spain to be hungry only when it suits." "Not forgetting that, to save still more, you do all the cooking for us, and will not even let us assist." "And to think, good Dagobert, that you wash almost every evening at our resting-place. As if it were not for us to--" "You!" said the soldier, interrupting Blanche, "I, allow you to chap your pretty little hands in soap-suds! Pooh! don't a soldier on a campaign always wash his own linen? Clumsy as you see me, I was the best washerwoman in my squadron--and what a hand at ironing! Not to make a brag of it." "Yes, yes--you can iron well--very well." "Only sometimes, there will be a little singe," said Rose, smiling. "Hah! when the iron is too hot. Zounds! I may bring it as near my cheek as I please; my skin is so tough that I don't feel the heat," said Dagobert, with imperturbable gravity. "We are only jesting, good Dagobert!" "Then, children, if you think that I know my trade as a washerwoman, let me continue to have your custom: it is cheaper; and, on a journey, poor people like us should save where we can, for we must, at all events, keep enough to reach Paris. Once there, our papers and the medal you wear will do the rest--I hope so, at least." "This medal is sacred to us; mother gave it to us on her death-bed." "Therefore, take great care that you do not lose it: see, from time to time, that you have it safe." "Here it is," said Blanche, as she drew from her bosom a small bronze medal, which she wore suspended from her neck by a chain of the same material. The medal bore on its faces the following inscriptions: Victim of L. C. D. J. Pray for me! ---- Paris February the, 13th, 1682. At Paris. Rue Saint Francois, No. 3, In a century and a half you will be. February the 13th, 1832. ---- PRAY FOR ME! "What does it mean, Dagobert?" resumed Blanche, as she examined the mournful inscriptions. "Mother was not able to tell us." "We will discuss all that this evening; at the place where we sleep," answered Dagobert. "It grows late, let us be moving. Put up the medal carefully, and away!--We have yet nearly an hour's march to arrive at quarters. Come, my poor pets, once more look at the mound where your brave father fell--and then--to horse! to horse!" The orphans gave a last pious glance at the spot which had recalled to their guide such painful recollections, and, with his aid, remounted Jovial. This venerable animal had not for one moment dreamed of moving; but, with the consummate forethought of a veteran, he had made the best use of his time, by taking from that foreign soil a large contribution of green and tender grass, before the somewhat envious eyes of Spoil-sport, who had comfortably established himself in the meadow, with his snout protruding between his fore-paws. On the signal of departure, the dog resumed his post behind his master, and Dagobert, trying the ground with the end of his long staff, led the horse carefully along by the bridle, for the meadow was growing more and more marshy; indeed, after advancing a few steps, he was obliged to turn off to the left, in order to regain the high-road. On reaching Mockern, Dagobert asked for the least expensive inn, and was told there was only one in the village--the White Falcon. "Let us go then to the White Falcon," observed the soldier.