M. Martin was neither a wicked man nor a fool, but he was a
confirmed skeptic. For forty years (he was now sixty) he had been
disappointed in all the events of his life.
When it became necessary for him to marry, he had to choose between
two of his cousins, who were equally accomplished and equally
beautiful. He preferred the one who pleased him least, because
she was of a more robust constitution than her sister. Nine years
afterwards she died, while the delicate sister was still living.
Martin was half ruined by a friend of his youth, for whom he would
have given his life.
One day, when he was from home, one of his outbuildings caught
fire, and the flames would have communicated to his dwelling but
for a man, who, at the risk of his life, succeeded in arresting
them. This man was his only enemy!
Well informed for a man of his condition, and endowed with a fair
share of sense, he was looked up to by his neighbors with a certain
degree of deference. He studied hard in order to strengthen a
reputation of which he was proud; but in so doing he was not slow
to discover that he knew nothing.
His first visit to Paris was still fresh in his memory. It was in
September, 1832. One morning he went to breathe the fresh air in
the garden of the Tuileries, when a man of a noble and friendly
mien, wearing a gray hat, commenced conversation with him.
“You are a stranger in Paris?”
“I am from Limousin,” replied Martin.
“You are a manufacturer, perhaps?”
“No: I am a farmer.”
“I am not acquainted with your section of the country, but I have
heard it highly spoken of.”
“We have, indeed, a beautiful country,” replied the
countryman,--“rich and picturesque, industrious and patriotic: we
are in want of but one thing,--a river.”
“But you have the Vienna.”
“The Vienna is not navigable.”
“Could it not be made so?”
“It is the dream of the entire population of Limousin.”
“Monsieur, what is your name?”
“Martin.”
“Very well, Monsieur Martin: when you return home, tell your
neighbors that in less than three years their river will be
navigable.”
“Who are you,” asked Martin, “who speak with so much authority?”
A bland smile lighted up the features of the man with the gray hat,
as he replied, with simplicity,--
“I am the King of the French.”
It seemed as if the crowd which had gathered around the two
promenaders had only waited for this announcement. Cries of “_Vive
le Roi!_” many times repeated, burst forth. The people surrounded
the king, who smiled at some, offered his hand to others, and had a
kind word for all.
“There is a great king and a great people,” thought Martin, who
returned to the Capelette to narrate his royal adventure and
acquaint the whole department with the king’s promises.
Seventeen years wore away. Martin, tired of the monotony of the
country, and living alone with his son, who was still a child,
resolved to go once more to Paris. Scarcely had he arrived at a
hotel, when he hurried to dress himself in his best, saying that,
although the king had not kept his promise, he owed him the first
visit. “I shall see him in his garden,” said he: “he will be less
embarrassed than if I were to call at his palace.”
He found the entrances to the Tuileries blocked up, and motley
crowds, who were loud in their cries, surrounded the palace. “What
excellent people!--what love for their sovereign!” thought honest
Martin.
Multitudes of ragged boys were running through the streets,
singing,--
“Mourir pour la patrie,
C’est le sort le plus beau,
Le plus digne d’envie:
C’est le sort * * * *”
“What youths! What noble youths!” cried honest Martin, with tears
in his eyes.
Seeing that he could not approach the garden from the side of the
Rue de Rivoli, he went round to the Place de la Concorde. Just as
he arrived at the quay, a small half-hidden gate in the wall opened
before him, from which issued an old man, wearing a blue blouse,
leaning on the arm of another man scarcely less aged than himself.
“Monsieur Martin,” said he, “help me, I pray you, to get into this
cab.”
“Who are you? I do not recollect you,” said the astonished rustic.
“An hour ago I was King of the French,” replied the old man.
“Ah! sire,” cried Martin, preoccupied by the one idea, “the Vienna
is not yet navigable.”
“It is true: I failed to keep my promise, and I am cruelly
punished.”
The cab drove rapidly away, while Martin remained fixed to the
spot, unable to comprehend the meaning of this royal apparition.
He was, however, soon roused from his revery by a noisy crowd that
issued from the little gate.
“The brigand has escaped us,” cried they.
“We will have him before he gets far.”
“So much the better.”
“Unfortunate king! deluded people!” murmured the countryman; and
he took the road to the Capelette, where he lived in solitude. His
mind became more and more wavering. Having no one with whom to
engage in discussion, he had contracted the habit of controverting
his ideas himself, and the consequence was, that he had become a
skeptic in every thing. This was the reason why he had brought
up his son as he had done, or, rather, the reason why he had not
brought him up at all.