ed, 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, manly face inflamed with rage, his eyes sparkling
with indignation, while on his broad forehead, crowned with short-cut
hair that was now turning gray, large veins, of which you might count
the pulsations, were swollen almost to bursting; and sometimes his
thick, black moustache was curled with a convulsive motion, not unlike
that which is seen in the visage of a raging lion. And even as the
wounded lion, in its fury, harassed and tortured by a thousand invisible
darts, walks up and down its den with savage wrath, so Marshal Simon
paced the floor of his r