It is singular that my mind so often reverts to the King. Whatever I do,
there is a voice within me which says,--
“There is, in this same town, at this same hour, and not far from hence,
in another Palace, a man who also has guards to all his gates; a man
alone, like thee, in the crowd,--with this difference, that he is as
high as thou art low. His entire life is glory, grandeur, delight. All
around him is love, respect, veneration; the loudest voices become low
in speaking to him, and the proudest heads are bent. At this moment he
is holding a Council of Ministers, where all coincide with his opinions;
or else he thinks of the Chase to-morrow, or the Ball for this evening,
feeling certain that the Fête will come, and leaving to others the
trouble of his pleasures.
Well, this man is of flesh and blood like thee! And in order that at
this instant the scaffold should fall, and thou be restored to life,
liberty, fortune, family, it would only be requisite for him to write
his name at the foot of a piece of paper; or even that his carriage
should meet thy fatal cart! And he is good, too, and perhaps would be
glad to do it; and yet it will not be done!