t-Dizier. We shall describe hereafter the
meaning and object of these odious reports, which, joined with so
many other fatal injuries, had filled up the measure of the marshal's
indignation. Inflamed with anger, excited almost to madness by this
incessant "stabbing with pins" (as he had himself called it), and
offended at some of Dagobert's words, he had spoken harshly to him.
But, after the soldier's departure, when left to reflect in silence, the
marshal remembered the warm and earnest expressions of the defender
of his children, and doubt crossed his mind, as to the reality of the
coldness of which he accused them. Therefore, having taken a terrible
resolution in case a new trial should confirm his desponding doubts, he
entered, as we before said, his, daughters' chamber. The discussion with
Dagobert had been so loud, that the sound of the voices had confusedly
reached the ears of the two sisters, even after they had taken refuge in
their bedroom. So that, on the arrival of their father, their pale
faces betrayed their fear and anxiety. At sight of the marshal, whose
countenance was also much agitated, the girls rose respectfully, but
remained close together, trembling in each other's arms. And yet there
was neither anger nor severity on their father's face--only a deep,
almost supplicating grief, which seemed to say: "My children, I
suffer--I have come to you--console me, love me! or I shall die!"

The marshal's countenance was at this moment so expressive, that, the
first impulse of fear once surmounted, the sisters were about to throw
themselves into his arms; but remembering the recommendations of the
anonymous letter, which told them how painful any effusion of their
tenderness was to their father, they exchanged a rapid glance, and
remained motionless. By a cruel fatality, the marshal at this moment
burned to open his arms to his children. He looked at them with love, he
even made a slight movement as if to call them to him; but he would
not attempt more, for fear of meeting with no response. Still the poor
children, paralyzed by perfidious counsels, remained mute, motionless,
trembling!

"It is all over," thought he, as he gazed upon them. "No chord of
sympathy stirs in their bosom. Whether I go---whether I remain--matters
not to them. No, I am nothing to these children--since, at this awful
moment, when they see me perhaps for the last time, no filial instinct
tells them that their affection might save me st