"His name is Richard, then," said Amélie. "This is some information gained," and with that much she had to content herself. The child had either forgotten or did not know his family name. Of his father he remembered nothing; of his mother he knew that she lived in a cottage near the beach, amid many flowers and with a large dog, as large as Silvano. Amélie began to think that he was a child born out of wedlock and she felt for him a greater attachment than ever. From the first moment of being with her, he had called her "Mamma." Her eyes would fill with tears as she placed him at night in his little bed and clasped his tiny hands in prayer. "He has no mother but me," she would say with trembling lips. One afternoon Louis Pierre read aloud to her from Rousseau's Emile while she held Baby Dick on her knees. Suddenly Jean Vilon appeared. "A man has just arrived," he said "bringing my master's watch-word. He came by the road of Saint Brieuc. Shall I open to him?" Louis exchanged a lightning glance with Amélie. "Is he dark, handsome, with curly black hair and in sailor's clothes?" she asked. "Yes, and he seems very tired." "Bring him through the subterranean passage, no matter how great is his fatigue. The servants must not see a stranger enter." Jean Vilon withdrew, and it was night when, almost fainting with exhaustion, and covered with dust, Giacinto appeared before them. Amélie ordered Vilon to retire. There was no need to ask questions. The Italian's face, with terrible eloquence, revealed the truth. Nevertheless Louis Pierre inquired: "Bad news?" "The worst." "Volpetti is saved?" "Saved and on the road to Paris." Louis Pierre's voice uttered an inarticulate growl, but the girl recovered sufficient courage to say: "Come, take heart! How did he save himself?" "He and three others swam ashore. The waves dashed them against the rocks, wounding and bruising them seriously. One of the men died from the effects; two others are lying on their backs in a fisherman's hut, and the only other of the party--was ever misfortune equal to this?--the only other,--he whose bruises amounted only to pinches and who speedily recovered sufficient strength to write a number of letters,--each of which is a dagger thrust in our sides--is that--cursed dog,--that--fiend--Volpetti!" Giacinto clutched his fine black hair and tore a handful from his head. "Fate is against us," said Louis Pierre gloomily. "And Soliviac?" "Aboard the Polipheme, on the sea, coasting toward Cherbourg. He would gladly sail away to Hamburg, out of danger's way, were he not a knight. He stays because we may have need of him." "So you have accomplished nothing?" "Nothing. After Volpetti communicated with the prefect, a guard of soldiers surrounded the hut in which he was recovering. 'Tis a wonder that I was not captured for I have been chased like a wild beast. A bullet pierced my cap and I have reached you by miracle." Louis Pierre interrupted: