'To heaven, where our dear mother waited for us with open arms, her face all bathed in tears.'
'Oh, sweet sister! one has not dreams like ours for nothing. And then,' added she, looking at Rose, with a sad smile that went to the heart, 'our death might perhaps end the sorrow, of which we have been the cause.'
'Alas! it is not our fault. We love him so much. But we are so timid and sorrowful before him, that he may perhaps think we love him not.'
So saying, Rose took her handkerchief from her workbasket, to dry her fears; a paper, folded in the form of a letter, fell out.
At this sight, the two shuddered, and pressed close to one mother, and Rose said to Blanche, in a trembling voice: 'Another of these letters!—Oh, I am afraid! It will doubtless be like the last.'
'We must pick it up quickly, that it may not be seen,' said Blanche, hastily stooping to seize the letter; 'the people who take interest in us might otherwise be exposed to great danger.'
'But how could this letter come to us?'
'How did the others come to be placed right under our hand, and always in the absence of our duenna?'
'It is true. Why seek to explain the mystery? We should never be able to do so. Let us read the letter. It will perhaps be more favorable to us than the last.' And the two sisters read as follows:-'Continue to love your father, dear children, for he is very miserable, and you are the involuntary cause of his distress. You will never know the terrible sacrifices that your presence imposes on him; but, alas! he is the victim of his paternal duties. His sufferings are more cruel than ever; spare him at least those marks of tenderness, which occasion him so much more pain than pleasure. Each caress is a dagger-stroke, for he sees in you the innocent cause of his misfortunes. Dear children, you must not therefore despair. If you have enough command over yourselves, not to torture him by the display of too warm a tenderness, if you can mingle some reserve with your affection, you will greatly alleviate his sorrow. Keep these letters a secret from every one, even from good Dagobert, who loves you so much; otherwise, both he and you, your father, and the unknown friend who is writing to you, will be exposed to the utmost peril, for your enemies are indeed formidable. Courage and hope! May your father's tenderness be once more free from sorrow and regret!—That happy day is perhaps not so far distant. Burn this letter like all the others!'
The above note was written with so much cunning that, even supposing the orphans had communicated it to their father or Dagobert, it would at the worst have been considered a strange, intrusive proceeding, but almost excusable from the spirit in which it was conceived. Nothing could have been contrived with more perfidious art, if we consider the cruel perplexity in which Marshal Simon was struggling between the fear of again leaving his children and the shame of neglecting what he considered a sacred duty. All the tenderness, all the susceptibility of heart which distinguished the orphans, had been called into play by these diabolical counsels, and the sisters soon perceived that their presence was in fact both sweet and painful to their father; for sometimes he felt himself incapable of leaving them, and sometimes the thought of a neglected duty spread a cloud of sadness over his brow. Hence the poor twins could not fail to value the fatal meaning of the anonymous letters they received. They were persuaded that, from some mysterious motive, which they were unable to penetrate, their presence was often importunate and even painful to their father. Hence the growing sadness of Rose and Blanche—hence the sort of fear and reserve which restrained the expression of their filial tenderness. A most painful situation for the marshal, who deceived by inexplicable appearances, mistook, in his turn, their manner of indifference to him—and so, with breaking heart, and bitter grief upon his face, often abruptly quitted his children to conceal his tears!
And the desponding orphans said to each other: 'We are the cause of our father's grief. It is our presence which makes him so unhappy.'
The reader may new judge what ravages such a thought, when fixed and incessant, must have made on these young, loving, timid, and simple hearts. Haw could the orphans be on their guard against such anonymous communications, which spoke with reverence of all they loved, and seemed every day justified by the conduct of their father? Already victims of numerous plots, and hearing that they were surrounded by enemies, we can understand, how faithful to the advice of their unknown friend, they forbore to confide to Dagobert these letters, in which he was so justly appreciated. The object of the proceeding was very plain. By continually harassing the marshal on all sides, and persuading him of the coldness of his children, the conspirators might naturally hope to conquer the hesitation which had hitherto prevented his again quitting his daughters to embark in a dangerous enterprise. To render the marshal's life so burdensome that he would desire to seek relief from his torments in airy project of daring and generous chivalry, was one of the ends proposed by Rodin—and, as we have seen, it wanted neither logic nor possibility.
After having read the letter, the two remained for a moment silent and dejected. Then Rose, who held the paper in her hand, started up suddenly, approached the chimneypiece, and threw the letter into the fire, saying, with a timid air: 'We must burn it quickly, or perhaps some great danger will ensue.'
'What greater misfortune can happen to us,' said Blanche, despondingly, 'than to cause such sorrow to our father? What can be the reason of it?'
'Perhaps,' said Rose, whose tears were slowly trickling down her cheek, 'he does not find us what he could have desired. He may love us well as the children of our poor mother, but we are not the daughters he had dreamed of. Do you understand me, sister?'
'Yes, yes—that is perhaps what occasioned all his sorrow. We are so badly informed, so wild, so awkward, that he is no doubt ashamed of us; and, as he loves us in spite of all, it makes him suffer.'
'Alas! it is not our fault. Our dear mother brought us up in the deserts of Siberia as well as she could.'
'Oh! father himself does not reproach us with it; only it gives him pain.'
'Particularly if he has friends whose daughters are very beautiful, and possessed of all sorts of talents. Then he must bitterly regret that we are not the same.'
'Dost remember when he took us to see our cousin, Mdlle. Adrienne, who was so affectionate and kind to us, that he said to us, with admiration: 'Did you notice her, my children? How beautiful she is, and what talent, what a noble heart, and therewith such grace and elegance!''
'Oh, it is very true! Mdlle. de Cardoville is so beautiful, her voice is so sweet and gentle, that, when we saw and heard her, we fancied that all our troubles were at an end.'
'And it is because of such beauty, no doubt, that our father, comparing us with our cousin and so many other handsome young ladies, cannot be very proud of us. And he, who is so loved and honored, would have liked to have been proud of his daughters.'
Suddenly Rose laid her hand on her sister's arm, and said to her, with anxiety: 'Listen! listen! they are talking very loud in father's bedroom.'
'Yes,' said Blanche, listening in her turn; 'and I can hear him walking. That is his step.'
'Good heaven! how he raises his voice; he seems to be in a great passion; he will perhaps come this way.'
And at the thought of their father's coming—that father who really adored them—the unhappy children looked in terror at each other. The sound of a loud and angry voice became more and more distinct; and Rose, trembling through all her frame, said to her sister: 'Do not let us remain here! Come into our room.'
'Why?'
'We should hear, without designing it, the words of our father—and he does not perhaps know that we are so near.'
'You are right. Come, come!' answered Blanche, as she rose hastily from her seat.
'Oh! I am afraid. I have never heard him speak in so angry a tone.'
'Oh! kind heaven!' said Blanche, growing pale, as she stopped involuntarily. 'It is to Dagobert that he is talking so loud.'
'What can be the matter—to make our father speak to him in that way?'
'Alas! some great misfortune must have happened.'
'Oh, sister! do not let us remain here! It pains me too much to hear Dagobert thus spoken to.'
The crash of some article, hurled with violence and broken to pieces in the next room, so frightened the orphans, that, pale and trembling with emotion, they rushed into their own apartment, and fastened the door. We must now explain the cause of Marshal Simon's violent anger.
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE STUNG LION.
This was the scene, the sound of which had so terrified Rose and Blanche. At first alone in his chamber, in a state of exasperation difficult to describe, Marshal Simon had begun to walk hastily up and down, his handsome,
