over to the further end of the room, which was completely dark.  Then,
turning towards Morok, who, with his arm encumbered by the sling, made a
rush for the staircase, the soldier caught him by his long, streaming
hair, pulled him back, clasped him with hands of iron, clapped his hand
over his mouth to stifle his outcries, and notwithstanding his desperate
resistance, dragged him into the chamber, on the floor of which the
burgomaster lay bruised and stunned.

Having double-locked the door, and put the key in his pocket, Dagobert
descended the stairs at two bounds, and found himself in a passage, that
opened on the court-yard.  The gate of the inn was shut, and there was no
possibility of escape on that side.  The rain fell in torrents.  He could
see through the window of a parlor, in which a fire was burning, the host
and his people waiting for the decision of the burgomaster.  To bolt the
door of the passage, and thus intercept all communication with the yard,
was for the soldier the affair of an instant, and he hastened upstairs
again to rejoin the orphans.

Morok, recovering from his surprise, was calling for help with all his
might; but, even if the distance had permitted him to be heard, the noise
of the wind and rain would have drowned his outcries.  Dagobert had about
an hour before him, for it would require some time to elapse before the
length of his interview with the magistrate would excite astonishment;
and, suspicion or fear once awakened, it would be necessary to break open
two doors--that which separated the passage from the court-yard, and that
of the room in which the burgomaster and the Prophet were confined.

"My children, it is now time to prove that you have a soldier's blood in
your veins," said Dagobert, as he entered abruptly the chamber of the
young girls, who were terrified at the racket they had heard for some
minutes.

"Good heaven, Dagobert! what has happened?" cried Blanche.

"What do you wish us to do?" added Rose.

Without answering, the soldier ran to the bed, tore off the sheets, tied
them strongly together, made a knot at one end, passed it over the top of
the left half of the casement, and so shut it in.  Thus made fast by the
size of the knot, which could not slip through, the sheets, floating on
the outside, touched the ground.  The second half of the window was left
open, to afford a passage to the fugitives.

The veteran next took his knapsack, the children's portmanteau, and the
reindeer pelisse, and threw them all out of the window, making a sign to
Spoil-sport to follow, to watch over them.  The dog did not hesitate, but
disappeared at a single bound.  Rose and Blanche looked at Dagobert in
amazement, without uttering a word.

"Now, children," said he to them, "the doors of the inn are shut, and it
is by this way," pointing to the window, "that we must pass--if we would
not be arrested, put in prison--you in one place, and I in the other--and
have our journey altogether knocked on the head."

"Arrested! put in prison!" cried Rose.

"Separated from you!" exclaimed Blanche.

"Yes, my poor children!--They have killed Jovial--we must make our escape
on foot, and try to reach Leipsic--when you are tired, I will carry you,
and, though I have to beg my way, we will go through with it.  But a
quarter of an hour later, and all will be lost.  Come, children, have
trust in me--show that the daughters of General Simon are no cowards--and
there is yet hope."

By a sympathetic movement, the sisters joined hands, as though they would
meet the danger united.  Their sweet faces, pale from the effect of so
many painful emotions, were now expressive of simple resolve, founded on
the blind faith they reposed in the devotion of the soldier.

"Be satisfied, Dagobert! we'll not be frightened," said Rose, in a firm
voice.

"We will do what must be done," added Blanche, in a no less resolute
tone.

"I was sure of it," cried Dagobert; "good blood is ever thicker than
water.  Come! you are light as feathers, the sheet is strong, it is
hardly eight feet to the ground, and the pup is waiting for you."

"It is for me to go first--I am the eldest for to-day," cried Rose, when
she had tenderly embraced Blanche; and she ran to the window, in order,
if there were any danger, to expose herself to it before her sister.

Dagobert easily guessed the cause of this eagerness.  "Dear children!"
said he, "I understand you.  But fear nothing for one another--there is
no danger.  I have myself fastened the sheet.  Quick, my little Rose!"

As light as a bird, the young girl mounted the ledge of the window, and
assisted by Dagobert, took hold of the sheet, and slid gently down
according to the recommendation of the soldier, who, leaning out his
whole body, encouraged her with his voice.

"Don't be afraid, sister!" said she, as soon as she touched the ground,
"it is very easy to come down this way.  And Spoil-sport is here, licking
my hands."  Blanche did not long keep her waiting; as courageous as her
sister, she descended with the same success.

"Dear little creatures! what have they done to be so unfortunate?--
Thousand thunders! there must be a curse upon the family," cried
Dagobert, as, with heavy heart, he saw the pale, sweet face of the young
girl disappear amid the gloom of the dark night, which violent squalls of
wind and torrents of rain rendered still more dismal.

"Dagobert, we are waiting for you; come quickly!" said the orphans in a
low voice, from beneath the window.  Thanks to his tall stature, the
soldier rather leaped than glided to the ground.

Dagobert and the two young girls had not fled from the inn of the White
Falcon more than a quarter of an hour, when a long crash resounded
through the house.  The door had yielded to the efforts of the
burgomaster and Morok, who had made use of a heavy table as a battering-
ram.  Guided by the light, they ran to the chamber of the orphans, now
deserted.  Morok saw the sheets floating from the casement, and cried:
"Mr. Burgomaster, they have escaped by the window--they are on foot--in
this dark and stormy night, they cannot be far."

"No doubt, we shall catch them, the miserable tramps! Oh, I will be
revenged!  Quick, Morok; your honor is concerned as well as mine."

"My honor?--Much more is concerned than that, Mr. Burgomaster," answered
the Prophet, in a tone of great irritation.  Then, rapidly descending the
stairs, he opened the door of the court-yard, and shouted in a voice of
thunder:

"Goliath! unchain the dogs!--and, landlord! bring us lanterns, torches--
arm your people--open the doors!--We must pursue the fugitives; they
cannot escape us; we must have them--alive or dead!"




CHAPTER XV.

THE DESPATCHES.

When we read, in the rules of the order of the Jesuits, under the title
De formula scribendi (Institut. 2, 11, p. 125, 129), the development of
the 8th part of the constitutions, we are appalled by the number of
letters, narratives, registers, and writings of all kinds, preserved in
the archives of the society.

It is a police infinitely more exact and better informed than has ever
been that of any state.  Even the government of Venice found itself
surpassed by the Jesuits: when it drove them out in 1606, it seized all
their papers, and reproached them for their great and laborious
curiosity.  This police, this secret inquisition, carried to such a
degree of perfection, may give some idea of the strength of a government,
so well-informed so persevering in its projects, so powerful by its
unity, and, as the constitutions have it, by the union of its members.
It is not hard to understand, what immense force must belong to the heads
of this society, and how the general of the Jesuits could say to the Duke
de Brissac: "From this room, your grace, I govern not only Paris, but
China--not only China, but the whole world--and all without any one
knowing how it is done:"
(Constitution of the Jesuits, edited by Paulin, Paris, 1843.)

Morok, the lion-tamer, seeing Dagobert deprived of his horse, and
stripped of his money and papers, and thinking it was thus out of his
power to continue his journey, had, previous to the arrival of the
burgomaster, despatched Karl to Leipsic, as the bearer of a letter which
he was to put immediately into the post.  The address of this letter was
as follows: "A Monsieur Rodin, Rue du Milieu des Ursins, Paris."

About the middle of this obscure and solitary street, situate below the
level of the Quai Napoleon, which it joins not far from the Rue Saint
Landry, there stood a house of unpretentious appearance, at the bottom of
a dark and narrow court-yard, separated from the street by a low building
in front, with arched doorway, and two windows protected by thick iron
bars.  Nothing could be more simple than the interior of this quiet
dwelling, as was sufficiently shown by the furniture of a pretty large
room on the ground floor.  The walls of this apartment were lined with
old gray wainscot; the tiled floor was painted red, and carefully
polished; curtains of white calico shaded the windows.

A sphere of about four feet in diameter, raised on a pedestal of massive
oak, stood at one end of the room, opposite to the fireplace.  Upon this
globe, which was painted on a large scale, a host of little red crosses
appeared scattered over all parts of the world--from the North to the
South, from the rising to the setting sun, from the most barbarous
countries, from the most distant isles, to the centres of civilization,
to France itself.  There was not a single country which did not present
some spots marked with these red crosses, evidently indicative of
stations, or serving as points of reference.

Before a table of black wood, loaded with papers, and resting against the
wall near the chimney, a chair stood empty.  Further on, between the two
windows, was a large walnut-wood desk, surmounted by shelves full of
pasteboard boxes.

At the end of the month of October, 1831, about eight o'clock in the
morning, a man sat writing at this desk.  This was M. Rodin, the
correspondent of Morok, the brute-tamer.

About fifty years of age, he wore an old, shabby, olive greatcoat, with a
greasy collar, a snuff-powdered cotton handkerchief for a cravat, and
waistcoat and trousers of threadbare black cloth.  His feet, buried in
loose varnished shoes, rested on a petty piece of green baize upon the
red, polished floor.  His gray hair lay flat on his temples, and
encircled his bald forehead; his eyebrows were scarcely marked; his upper
eyelid, flabby and overhanging, like the membrane which shades the eyes
of reptiles, half concealed his small, sharp, black eye.  His thin lips,
absolutely colorless, were hardly distinguishable from the wan hue of his
lean visage, with its pointed nose and chin; and this livid mask
(deprived as it were of lips) appeared only the more singular, from its
maintaining a death-like immobility.  Had it not been for the rapid
movement of his fingers, as, bending over the desk, he scratched along
with his pen, M. Rodin might have been mistaken for a corpse.

By the aid of a cipher (or secret alphabet) placed before him he was
copying certain passages from a long sheet full of writing, in a manner
quite unintelligible to those who did not possess the key to the system.
Whilst the darkness of the day increased the gloom of the large, cold,
naked-looking apartment, there was something awful in the chilling aspect
of this man, tracing his mysterious characters in the midst of profound
silence.

The clock struck eight.  The dull sound of the knocker at the outer door
was heard, then a bell tinkled twice, several doors opened and shut, and
a new personage entered the chamber.  On seeing him, M. Rodin rose from
the desk, stuck his pen between his teeth, bowed with a deeply submissive
air, and sat down again to his work without uttering a word

The two formed a striking contrast to one another.  The newcomer, though
really older than he seemed, would have passed for thirty-six or thirty-
eight years of age at most.  His figure was tall and shapely, and few
could have encountered the brightness of his large gray eye, brilliant as
polished steel.  His nose, broad at the commencement, formed a well-cut
square at its termination; his chin was prominent, and the bluish tints
of his close-shaved beard were contrasted with the bright carnation of
his lips, and the whiteness of his fine teeth.  When he took off his hat
to change it for a black velvet cap which he found on the small table, he
displayed a quantity of light chestnut hair, not yet silvered by time.
He was dressed in a long frock-coat, buttoned up to the neck in military
fashion.

The piercing glance and broad forehead of this man revealed a powerful
intellect, even as the development of his chest and shoulders announced a
vigorous physical organization; whilst his gentlemanly appearance, the
perfection of his gloves and boots, the light perfume which hung about
his hair and person, the grace and ease of his least movements, betrayed
what is called the man of the world, and left the impression that he had
sought or might still seek every kind of success, from the most frivolous
to the most serious.  This rare combination of strength of mind, strength
of body, and extreme elegance of manners, was in this instance rendered
still more striking by the circumstance, that whatever there might be of
haughtiness or command in the upper part of that energetic countenance,
was softened down, and tempered by a constant but not uniform smile--for,
as occasion served, this smile became either kind or sly, cordial or gay,
discreet or prepossessing, and thus augmented the insinuating charm of
this man, who, once seen, was never again forgotten. But, in yielding to
this involuntary sympathy, the doubt occurred if the influence was for
good--or for evil.

M. Rodin, the secretary of the newcomer, continued to write.

"Are there any letters from Dunkirk, Rodin?" inquired his master.

"Post not yet in."

"Without being positively uneasy as to my mother's health, since she was
already convalescent," resumed the other, "I shall only be quite
reassured by a letter from my excellent friend, the Princess de Saint-
Dizier.  I shall have good news this morning, I hope."

"It is to be desired," said the secretary, as humble and submissive as he
was laconic and impassible.

"Certainly it is to be desired," resumed his master; "for one of the
brightest days of my life was when the Princess de Saint-Dizier announced
to me that this sudden and dangerous illness had yielded to the care and
attention with which she surrounds my mother.  Had it not been for that I
must have gone down to her instantly, though my presence here is very
necessary."

Then, approaching the desk, he added: "Is the summary of the foreign
correspondence complete?"

"Here is the analysis."

"The letters are still sent under envelope to the places named, and are
then brought here as I directed?"

"Always."

"Read to me the notes of this correspondence; if there are any letters
for me to answer, I will tell you."  And Rodin's master began to walk up

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