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Updated: June 29, 2025
Frances was still kneeling in the interior of the confessional. One of the slides opened, and a voice began to speak. It was that of the priest, who, for the last twenty years had been the confessor of Dagobert's wife, and exercised over her an irresistible and all-powerful influence. "You received my letter?" said the voice. "Yes, father. "Very well I listen to you."
The door which Agricola had not thought of fastening opened, as it were, timidly, and Frances Baudoin, Dagobert's wife, pale, sinking, hardly able to support herself, appeared on the threshold. The soldier, Agricola, and Mother Bunch, were plunged in such deep dejection, that neither of them at first perceived the entrance.
Dagobert's son, deceived, like others, on this point, had never suspected, and was destined never to suspect, this love for him. Such was the poorly-clad girl who entered the room in which Frances was preparing her son's supper. "Is it you, my poor love," said she; "I have not seen you since morning: have you been ill? Come and kiss me."
I am in a hurry to get home." Dagobert's position was the more distressing, as for a moment he had indulged in sanguine hope.
On the wooden table, painted yellow, marbled with brown, stood a miniature house made of iron a masterpiece of patience and skill, the work of Agricola Baudoin, Dagobert's son. A plaster crucifix hung up against the wall, surrounded by several branches of consecrated box-tree, and various images of saints, very coarsely colored, bore witness to the habits of the soldier's wife.
Let us find some employment, and earn our own living. It must be so proud and happy to earn one's living!" "Good little sister," said Blanche, kissing Rose. "What happiness! You have forestalled my thought; kiss me!" "How so?" "Your project is mine exactly. Yesterday, when I heard Dagobert's wife complain so sadly that she had lost her sight.
Whilst Dagobert spoke, the commissary looked more and more attentively at Frances, who, supported by the hunchback, continued to weep bitterly. After a moment's reflection, the magistrate advanced towards Dagobert's wife, and said to her: "Madame, you have heard what your husband has just declared." "Yes, sir." "What have you to say in your justification?"
"I entreat you, my dear," cried Frances, throwing herself in a fright before Dagobert, who was hastening towards the door; "only think, to what you will expose yourself! Heavens! insult a priest? Why, it is one of the reserved cases!" These last words, which appeared most alarming to the simplicity of Dagobert's wife, did not make any impression upon the soldier.
Yes, of a martyr! for a blood-red halo already encircled that beauteous head. This young man was Gabriel, the priest attached to the foreign mission, the adopted son of Dagobert's wife. He was a priest and martyr for, in our days, there are still martyrs, as in the time when the Caesars flung the early Christians to the lions and tigers of the circus.
Though the orphans took no part in this melancholy conversation, the sorrow and anxiety depicted in their countenances, showed how much they felt for the sufferings of Dagobert's wife. "But the young lady?" cried Frances. "You should have tried to see her, my good Mother Bunch, and begged her not to abandon my son.
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