I have walked so far! My children that I fed from my breast! And I thought I was unfortunate not to find them! Have pity on me! I want my children, I must have my children! And yet they are in the fire! See how my poor feet are all covered with blood. Help! It is not possible that there are men on the earth who would leave these poor little ones to die like this! Help! murder! The like of this was never seen before. Ah, you brigands! What is this frightful house? You stole them away from me to kill them! Jesus have pity! I want my children. Oh, I do not know what I can do! I cannot let them die! help! help! help! Oh, if they should die like this I should hate God!"
During the mother's awful supplication, voices were heard on the plateau and in the ravine.
"A ladder!"
"There is no ladder!"
"Water!"
"There is no water!"
"Up there in the tower, in the second story, there is a door."
"It is of iron."
"Burst it open!"
"It cannot be done!"
And the mother redoubled her desperate appeals,—
"Fire! help! Hurry! Oh, kill me! My children, my children! Ah! the horrible fire! Take them out of it, or throw me in, too!"
In the intervals between her cries was heard the calm crackling of the fire.
The marquis felt in his pocket and touched the key to the iron door. Then bending down under the archway through which he had made his escape, he went back into the passage from which he had just come out.
