"Halt!" cried the sentinel at the entrance to the Temple. "No one

can go in here without a pass."

"You do not want a pass for my rocking-horse, brother citizen, do

you?" asked Simon, with a laugh.

"Nonsense! I am speaking about the commissioner."

"He is going of himself, and does not want to go in. But look him

square in the face, for he will come to-morrow morning again. I have

secured him in advance, to help me in moving out. Bring a wagon

along, commissioner, for the things will be too heavy to carry

without one. And now help put the horse on my shoulders. So! Well,

then, to-morrow morning at ten, commissioner."

"To-morrow morning at ten," replied Toulan, nodding to Simon, and

slowly sauntering through the court. He stopped at the outer gate,

told the porter that he was going to assist Simon in his moving on

the morrow, and then asked in an indifferent tone whether Simon's

successor at the Temple was appointed.

"Why, would you like the place?" asked the porter, gruffly.

"No, indeed, not I! I have no taste for such work. It must be an

awful air in the prison."

"It is that," replied the porter. "And so after Simon has moved out,

they are going to cleanse the place a little, and give it an airing,

and the successor will move in about noon."

"Well, I don't envy the man who moves in," said Toulan, with a

laugh. "Good-by, citizen, we shall see each other to-morrow."

He went out into the street, and slowly sauntered along. At the end

of it he stopped and gave a trifle to a beggar who, supported by a

crutch, was leaning against a house.

"Is it all right thus far?"

"Yes, marquis, thank God, thus far every thing has gone on well. The

horse is in the Temple, and nothing is discovered."

"May the grace of God stand by us to-morrow!" whispered the beggar.

"You are sure that all the arrangements are carefully attended to?"

"Entirely sure, M. de Jarjayes. While you are leaving Paris in the

garb of a washerwoman, our two allies will both be driving out of

two other gates, with the boy, in stylish carriages."

"And it will be you, Toulan, who will have saved the King of

France," whispered the beggar. "Oh! be sure that all France will

thank you for it some day, and give you the title of savior of your

country!"

"Baron," said Toulan, shaking his head, "for me there is but one

title of honor, that which the Queen of France gave me. I am called

Fidele, and I want no other name. But this one I will maintain so

long as I live. Good-by till we meet to-morrow at the Porte Macon!"

Little Prince Louis Charles received the hobby-horse, which Simon

carried into the chamber, with a little more interest than in the

case of the other playthings. He even raised himself up a little on

his mattress, and directed a long, searching gaze at the tall,

handsome wooden creature.

"Well," asked the official, who had gone with Simon into the

dungeon, and had watched the effect of the toy, "well, how does your

horse please you, little Capet?"

The boy nodded slowly, but made no reply; he only reached out his

long, thin, right hand, and made a motion as if he wanted to rise.

"To-morrow, little Capet," cried Jeanne Marie, holding him back.

"To-day you must keep entirely still, so the doctor said, and I will

cut your hair off directly, as the doctor ordered. But I should like

to have you here, citizen, and oversee the operation. The boy will

look much changed, when his long, yellow hair is cut off, and

afterward it might be supposed--"

"Yes, certainly," interrupted Simon, with a laugh, "afterward it

might be supposed that it is not the stupid youngster who has

troubled us so long, that out of pure tenderness and love we had

taken him along with us."

"No one would consider the republican Simon capable of such a

thing," replied the official, "and besides, the boy will stay here,

and no substitute for him can fall out of the clouds. Be free from

care, Simon. I myself shall recognize the boy to-morrow, and if he

should look changed in appearance, I shall know how it comes."

"Yes, he will know how it comes," said Simon, with a grin, as he

watched the retreating form of the official, now leaving the prison.

"Lock the door, Simon," whispered Jeanne Marie. "We must let the boy

out of this if he is not to be stifled!"

"No, no," said Simon, motioning his wife to retreat from the hobby-

horse which she was approaching. "He will not be stifled, for

beneath the saddle-cloth there are nothing but air-holes, and he can

endure it a good while. We must above all things be cautious and

prepared for every thing. It would be a fine thing, would it not, if

the officials who are on guard in the Temple should conceive the

idea of making the rounds a second time for the purpose of

inspection. He cannot be carried out before it strikes ten from

Notre Dame. We will, however, give him a little more air."

He removed the saddle with care, which was let into the back of the

wooden horse, and listened at the opening.

"He breathes very peacefully and evenly," he then said, softly. "He

seems to be asleep. Jeanne Marie, hold the saddle in your hand, and

at the least approach fit it again in its place. I will now take

hold and pack our things."

When the night came, and the last rounds had been made past the

closed doors of Simon's rooms, and the officials had withdrawn into

the great hall, where they stayed during the night-watch, there was

an unusual stir within Simon's apartments. Jeanne Marie, who had

thrown herself in her clothes upon the bed, slipped out from beneath

the coverlet. Simon, who was standing near the door listening,

advanced to the little prince, and bade him in a whisper to get up.

The child, which now seemed to have recovered from its indifference

and stupidity, rose at once, and at Simon's further command made an

effort to remove his clothes, and to put on in their place the

coarse woollen suit and the linen trousers which Simon drew out of

his bed and handed to him.

The toilet was soon completed, and the little prince looked with a

timid, inquiring glance at Simon, who was regarding him with a

searching eye.

"And the stockings, master?" he asked. "Do not I have any

stockings?"

"No," growled Simon--"no, the son of a washerwoman wants no

stockings. There are some wooden shoes which will be laid for you in

the basket, and you put them on afterward, if we are fortunate in

getting away. But you must cut his hair, Jeanne Marie. With long

hair he will not look like a boy from the people."

Jeanne Marie shuddered. "I cannot," she whispered; "it would seem to

me as if I were cutting off his head, and the woman in white would

stand behind, and pierce me through with her great eyes."

"Come, come, that old story again!" growled Simon. "Give me the

scissors, then; I will take care of it, for the boy must part with

his hair before he goes into the basket. Come, come, do not shrink

and curl up so; I was not speaking of the guillotine-basket, but of

your dirty-clothes basket. Come, Capet, I want to cut your hair."

He took the great shears from the work-basket, and sat down on a

stool by the side of the table, on which burned a dim tallow candle,

throwing an uncertain light through the apartment. "Come, Capet!"

The boy stole up with an insecure step, and shrank together when

Simon seized him and drew him between his knees.

"Do not hurt him, Simon. Be careful of him," whispered Jeanne Marie,

sinking on the floor and folding her hands. "Remember, husband, that

she is here, and that she is looking at you, and that she bores into

my head with her eyes when you do any harm to the child."

Simon looked around with a shy and anxious glance. "It is high time

that we were away from here," he growled--"high time, if I am not to

be crazy as well as you. Stoop down, Capet, so that I can cut your

hair off." The child let his head fall; but a faint, carefully

suppressed sob came from his breast, while Simon's shears went

clashing through his locks, severing them from his head.

"What are you crying for, Capet?" asked Simon, zealously going

forward with his work.

"I am so sorry, master, to have my locks cut off."

"You probably suppose, you vain monkey, that your locks are

particularly beautiful?"

"Oh, no, master! It is only," sighed the boy with his eyes full of

tears--" it is only because her hand has rested on them, and because

she kissed them when I saw her the last time."

"Who is she?" asked Simon, roughly.

"My mamma queen," replied Louis with such a tone of tenderness as to

bring tears into the eyes of Jeanne Marie, and even to move the

cobbler himself.

"Hush!" he said, softly. "Hush! you must never call your mother by

such a name. After to-morrow morning you are to be the son of a

washerwoman. Remember that, and now be still! There, your hair is

done now. Pick up the locks from the floor and lay them on the

table, Jeanne Marie. We must leave them here, that the officer may

find them in the morning, and not wonder if he does not recognize

the urchin. Now we will bring the wash-basket, and see whether young

Capet will go into it. "

He brought out of the chamber a high, covered basket, grasped the

boy, thrust him in, and ordered him to lie down on the bottom of the

basket.

"He exactly fits!" said Simon to his wife. "We will now throw some

dirty clothes over him, and he can spend the night in the basket. We

must be ready for any thing; for there are many distrustful

officials, and it would not be the first time that they have made

examinations in the night. Little Capet must remain in the basket,

and now we will take his substitute out of the horse."

He went to the hobby-horse, took out some screws which ran along the

edges of the upholstery, and then carefully removed the upper part

of the animal from the lower. In the hollow thus brought to light,

lay a pale, sick boy, with closed eyes--the nephew of the Marquis de

Jarjayes, the last descendant of the Baroness de Tarclif, now, as

all his ancestors had done, to give his life for his king.

Jeanne Marie rose from her knees, took a light from the table, and

approached the child, which was lying in its confined space as in a

coffin.

The little prince had raised himself up in his basket, and his pale

face was visible as he looked, out of his large blue eyes, with

curiosity and amazement at the sick child.

"He does not look like the king's son," whispered Jeanne Marie,

after a long, searching study of the pale, bloated face of the

idiot.

"We will put his clothes on at once, then he will look all right,

for clothes make the man. Stand up, little one, you need to get up.

You are not to stay any longer in your curious prison."

"He does not understand you," said Jeanne Marie. "Do not you

remember that Toulan told us that the boy is perfectly deaf and

dumb?"

"True; I had forgotten it, and yet it is fortunate for us, for a

deaf and dumb person cannot disclose any dangerous secrets. Come,

Jeanne Marie, give me the clothes; we will dress up the little mute

like a prince."

They put upon him the velvet jacket, the short trowsers of black

cloth, the shoes and stockings of the prince, who still was looking

out of his basket at the pale, softly-moaning child, which was now

placed by Simon and his wife on the mattress.

"There," said Simon, throwing the coverlet over the boy, "there, the

royal prince is ready, and we can say, as they used to do at St.

Denis, when they brought a new occupant into the royal vault, 'Le

roi est mort, vive le roi! ' Lie quietly in your basket, Capet, for

you see you are deposed, and your successor has your throne."

"Master," whispered Louis, anxiously and timidly, "master, may I ask

you a question?"

"Well, yes, you may, you little nameless toad. What is it?"

"Master, will the sick child have to die, if I am saved?"

"What do you mean, youngster? What are you at?"

"I only mean, master--I only wanted to say that if the poor boy must

die, if he takes my place, why--I should rather stay here. For--"

"Well, go on, stupid! what do you mean by your 'for?' You would

rather remain here?"

"Yes, master, if another is to die and be beaten and tortured, for

blows hurt so much, and I should not like to have another boy

receive them instead of me. That would be wicked in me, and--"

"And you are a stupid fellow, and do not know any thing you are

talking about," said Simon, shaking his fist at him. " Just put on

airs, and speak another such a foolish word, and I will not only

beat you to death, but I will beat this miserable, whining youngster

to death too, and then you will certainly be to blame for it. Down

with you into the basket, and if you venture to put your head up

again, and if to-morrow you are not obedient and do just what we bid

you, I will beat you and him, both of you, to pieces, and pack you

into the clothes-basket, and carry you away. Down into the basket!"

The boy sank down out of sight; and when, after a little while,

Jeanne Marie cautiously looked to see whether he had fallen asleep,

she saw that Louis Charles was kneeling on the bottom of the basket,

and raising his folded hands up to heaven.

"Simon," she whispered--" Simon, do not laugh at me and scold me.

You say, I know, that there is no God, and the republic has done

away with Deity, and the Church, and the priests. But let me once

kneel down and pray to Him with whom little Louis Charles is talking

now, and to whom the Austrian spoke on the scaffold."

Without waiting for Simon's answer, Jeanne Marie sank upon her

knees. Folding her hands, she leaned her forehead on the rim of the

basket, and softly whispered, "Louis Charles, do you hear me?"

"Yes," lisped the child, "I hear you."

"I ask your forgiveness," whispered Jeanne Marie. "I have sinned

dreadfully against you, but remorse has taken hold of my heart, and

tears it in pieces and gives me no rest day or night. Oh, forgive

me, son of the queen, and when you pray, implore your mother to

forgive me the evil that I have done her."

"I will pray to my dear mamma queen for you, and I know she will

forgive you, for she was so very good, and she always said to me

that we must forgive our enemies; and I had to swear to my dear papa

that I would forget and forgive all the wrong that men should do to

me. And so I forgive you, and I will forget all the bad things that

Master Simon has done to me, for my papa and my mamma wished me to."

Jeanne Marie let her head sink lower, and pressed her hands firmly

against her lips to repress the outcries which her remorseful

conscience prompted. Simon seemed to understand nothing of this soft

whispering; he was busily engaged in packing up his things, and no

one saw him hastily draw his hand over his eyes, as if he wanted to

wipe away the dust which suddenly prevented his seeing.

Gradually it grew still in the gloomy room. The whispering in the

basket ceased. Jeanne Marie had retired to her bed, and had wept

herself to sleep. Upon the mattress lay the sick, sobbing child, the

substitute of King Louis XVII., who was in the basket.

Simon was the only one who was awake, and there must have been

dismal thoughts that busied him. He sat upon the stool near the

candle, which was nearly burned out, his forehead was corrugated and

clouded, his lips were closely pressed together, and the little,

flashing eyes looked out into the empty space full of anger and

threatenings.

"It must be," he muttered at last, "it must be. I should otherwise

not have a moment's peace, and always feel the knife at my throat.

One of us must be away from here, in order that he may disclose the

other. I will not be that one, it must be Toulan."

He stood up with the air of one who had made a fixed, unchangeable

resolve, and stretched his bony, crooked limbs. Then he threw one

last look at the stranger-child, that lay moaning and groaning on

his mattress, fell upon his bed, and soon his long-drawn, sonorous

breathing disclosed the fact that Master Simon was asleep.

On the next morning there reigned in the lower stories of the Temple

a busy, stirring life. Master Simon was preparing to move, and all

his household goods were set out in the court, in order to be

transferred to the wagon that Commissioner Toulan had ordered. Close

to the wagon stood one of the officials of the Public Safety, and

examined every article of furniture that was put into it, opening

even the bandboxes and pillows to look into them. Not, as he said,

the Welfare Committee doubted the honesty of the faithful and

zealous servant of the republic, but only to satisfy the forms, and

to comply with the laws, which demanded that the authorities should

have a watchful eye on every thing that was at all connected with

the family of the tyrants.

"And you will do me a great pleasure if you will examine every thing

with the utmost care. In the republic we are all alike, and I do not

see why I should not be served to-day as another would be on the

morrow. You know, probably, that I have been appointed collector at

Porte Macon, and after to-morrow I shall have to inspect the goods

of other people. It is all fair that I should have my turn to-day.

Besides, you will not have much more to examine, we are almost

through; I believe there is only a basket with the soiled clothes

yet to come. That is the sacred possession of my wife, and she was

going to bring it out herself, with the commissioner's help. Yes,

there they come."

At that moment, Jeanne Marie appeared in the court, followed by

Toulan. They brought along, by two ropes which served as handles, a

large and longish basket, whose half-opened cover brought to view

all kinds of women's clothes.

"Room there," cried Simon, with a laugh, "room for the Citoyenne

Simon and her costly dowry!"

"Come, no joking, Simon," said his wife, threatening him with her

fist and laughing. "If my dowry is not costly enough, I will only

ask you to provide me with better things."

"Your dowry is magnificent," said Simon, "and there is not a single

article lacking to make it complete. Come, I will help the

commissioner put the basket in the wagon, for it is too heavy for

you, my fairest one!"

He took hold of the basket with his strong arm, and helped the

commissioner swing it into the wagon.

"But let me look first into the basket, as my duty demands," said

the official. "You are too quick! You know, citizen, that I must

examine all your goods. The law compels me to."

"Then I beg you to climb up into the wagon and open the basket,"

said Simon, calmly. "You cannot want us to take the heavy thing down

again for you to examine it."

"I do not ask that, citizen, but I must examine the basket."

The official sprang into the wagon, but Jeanne Marie was quicker

than he, and stood close by the basket, whose cover was partly

opened.

"Look in, citizen," she said, with dignity. "Convince yourself that

only the clothing of a woman is in it, and then tell the republic

that you found it necessary to examine the basket of the famous

knitter of the guillotine, as if Jeanne Marie was a disguised

duchess, who wanted to fly from the hand of justice."

"I beg your pardon," said the official, "every one knows and honors

the knitter of the guillotine, but--"

"But you are curious, and want to see some of my clothes. Well, look

at them!" She raised those which lay at the top, and held them up to

the official with a laugh.

"And down below? What is farther down in the basket?"

"Farther down," replied Jeanne Marie, with an expression of the

greatest indignation and the most outraged modesty, "farther down

are my dirty clothes, and I hope the republic will not consider it

necessary to examine these too. I would at least oppose it, and call

every female friend I have to my help." [Footnote: Madame Simon's

own words, reported from her own account, which she gave in the year

1810 to the Sisters of Mercy who cared for her in her last sickness.

The sisterhood of the female hospital in the rue Sevres publicly

repeated, in the year 1851, this statement of Jeanne Marie Simon,

who died there in 1819. It was in the civil process brought against

the Duke de Normandy, who was accused of giving himself out falsely

as King Louis XVII., and who could not be proved not to be he.]

"Oh! you will not have to do that," replied the official, with a

friendly nod of the head. "It would be presumptuous to go farther

with the examination of your goods, and the republic regards with

respect the mysteries of an honorable wife."

He jumped down from the wagon, while Jeanne Marie, still wearing an

angry look, laid the clothes back into the basket, and shut the

cover down.

"Can we go now?" she asked, taking her seat on a low stool which

happened to be near the great basket.

"Yes, if the official has nothing against it, we can go," answered

Simon. "Our goods are all loaded."

"Then go on, I have nothing against it, and I wish you and your wife

much happiness and joy in your new career."

The official waved them a last gracious adieu with the hand, and the

wagon started. Alongside of the great, hard-mouthed and long-haired

horse that drew the cart, walked the commissioner, in order, once in

a while, when they had to turn a corner, to seize the bridle and

give it a powerful jerk. At the side of the wagon strode Simon,

keeping a watchful eye upon his possessions, and carefully setting

every thing aright which was in danger of being shaken off upon the

pavement. Above in the carriage near the great basket sat Jeanne

Marie, the former knitter of the guillotine. Her naked brown arm

rested upon the basket, on whose bottom, covered with dirty linen

and Mistress Simon's clothes, was the son of Marie Antoinette, King

Louis XVII., making his entrance into the world which should have

for him only sufferings and illusions, shattered hopes and dethroned

ideals.

This happened on the 19th of January, 1794, and on the very day in

which the unhappy King Louis XVII. was leaving the Temple, his

sister Theresa, who was still living with her Aunt Elizabeth in the

upper rooms, wrote in her diary (known subsequently by the title

"Recit des evenements arrives au Temple, par Madame Royale") the

following words: "On the 19th of January my aunt and I heard beneath

us, in the room of my brother, a great noise which made us suspect

that my brother was leaving the Temple.

We were convinced of it when, looking through the keyhole of the

door, we saw goods carried away. On the following day we heard the

door of the room, in which my brother had been, opened, and

recognized the steps of men walking around, which confirmed us in

the belief that he had been carried away."

The pitiful wagon, which gave its hospitality to the knitter of the

revolution, as well as to a king, drove slowly and carefully through

the streets, unnoticed by the people who hastily passed by. Now and

then they encountered a commissioner who came up to Toulan, greeted

him as an acquaintance, and asked after his welfare. Toulan nodded

to them confidentially and answered them loudly that he was very

well, and that he was helping Simon move out of the Temple and going

with him to Porte Macon.

The commissioners then wished him a pleasant journey, and went their

way; but the farther they were from the wagon, the quicker were

their steps, and here and there they met other commissioners, to

whom they repeated Toulan's words, and who then went from there and

again told them over to their friends in the streets, in quiet,

hidden chambers, and in brilliant palaces. In one such palace the

tidings caused a singular commotion. Count Frotte, who lived there,

and whom the public permitted to live in Paris, ordered his

travelling carriage to be brought out at once. The postilion, with

four swift horses, had already stood in the court below half an

hour, waiting for this order. The horses were quickly harnessed to

the carriage, which was well filled with trunks; and scarcely had it

reached the front door, when the count hurried down the grand

staircase, thickly wrapped in his riding-furs. At his right sat a

little boy of scarcely ten years, a velvet cap, trimmed with fur,

upon his short, fair hair; the slender, graceful form concealed with

a long velvet cloak, that fell down as far as the shoes with golden,

jewelled buckles.

Count Frotte seemed to bestow special care and attention upon this

boy, for he not only had him sit on his right, but remained standing

near the door, to give precedence to the boy, and then hastened to

follow him. He pressed the servants back who stood near the open

door, bowed respectfully, and gave his hand to the lad to assist him

in ascending. The youth received these tokens of respect quietly,

and seemed to take it as a matter of course that Count Frotte should

carefully put furs around his feet and body, in order to protect him

from every draft. As soon as this was done, the count entered the

carriage, and took his place at the left of the boy. The servant

closed the carriage-door with a loud slam, and the steward advanced

with respectful mien, and asked whither the count would order to go.

"The road to Puy," said the count, with a loud voice, and the

steward repeated to the postilion just as loudly and clearly, "The

road to Puy."

The carriage drove thunderingly out of the court-door, and the

servant looked after it till it disappeared, and then followed the

house-steward, who motioned him to come into the cabinet.

"I have something to tell you, citizen," said the steward, with a

weighty air, "but first I must beg you to make me a solemn promise

that you will continue a faithful and obedient servant of the count,

and prove in no way false to your oath and your duty."

The servant pledged himself solemnly, and the steward continued:

"The count has undertaken a journey which is not to be spoken of,

and is to remain, if possible, a secret. I demand of you, therefore,

that if any one asks where the count has gone, you answer that you

do not know. But above all things, you are not to say that the count

is not travelling alone, but in company with the young-gentleman,

whose name and rank I know just as little about as you. Will you

promise to faithfully heed my words?"

The servant asserted it with solemn oaths and an expression of deep

reverence. The steward beckoned to him to go, and then looked at him

for a long time, and with a singular expression as he withdrew.

"He is a spy of the Safety Committee," he whispered to himself. "I

am convinced that he is so, and he will certainly go at once and

report to the authorities, and they will break their heads thinking

what the count has to do in Puy, and who the boy is who accompanies

my lord. Well, that is exactly what we want: to put the bloodhounds

and murderers on a false scent. That is just the object of the

count, and for that purpose M. Morin de Gueriviere has lent his only

son, for all that we have and are, our lives, our children, and

every thing else, belong to our king and lord. I hope, therefore,

that the count's plan will succeed, and the Safety Committee be put

on a false scent."

Meanwhile the pitiful carriage containing Simon's goods had slowly

taken its way through the streets and halted at its goal, the

custom-house near Porte Macon. Before the building stood a woman in

the neat and tasteful costume of the washerwomen from the village of

Vannes, which then, as now, was the abode of the washerwomen of

Paris.

"Well," cried the woman, with a loud laugh, helping Mistress Simon

dismount from the wagon--" well, you have come at last. For two

hours I have been waiting for you, for you ordered me to be here at

eleven, and now it is one. What will my husband and my little boy

say about my coming home so late?"

"I beg your pardon," said Jeanne Marie, with a kindly voice. "Our

ride was a good deal slower than I thought, for the things were

packed only loosely, and if we had ridden faster they would easily

have been injured. But, I will not detain you longer, and you shall

have my wash at once. There are a great many clothes this time, and

I have therefore thrown them all at once into the basket; so you can

put the basket right upon your wagon and bring the things back in

it. Halloa, Simon, and you, commissioner, take hold and lift the

basket down, and carry it out to the washerwoman's wagon that is

standing near the gate."

The two men immediately lifted the great basket out, and carried it

to the open cart which stood there, in which lay arranged in regular

order great bundles of dirty linen. Near the gate stood the sub-

collector, whose superior Simon now was, and it therefore did not

occur to him to examine the basket which his new chief was putting

in the washerwoman's wagon. Some busybodies who stood around turned

their whole attention to the wagon which contained the furniture and

goods of the new collector, who was, of course, a very important

person in this remote quarter, and Jeanne Marie endeavored with her

loud words and choleric gesticulations to fasten the attention of

the idlers upon herself. Nobody regarded the two men, who had just

put the basket into the washerwoman's cart, and no one heard the

words that they softly spoke together.

The washerwoman had raised the cover, and was rolling around the

clothes, as if she wanted to examine the contents of the basket.

"Sire," she whispered, softly, as she did so--"sire, do you hear

me?"

A weak, faint voice replied, "I hear you."

"And shall you be able to bear it, if you stay a little longer in

your hiding-place?"

"Oh yes, I shall be able to bear it; but I am anxious, and I should

like to be away from here."

The washerwoman closed the cover of the basket, and sprang down from

the wagon. "Every thing is in order," she said, "and it is high time

that I should be off. I have a long way to go, and my husband and

child are expecting me."

"Then go, with God's blessing," said the commissioner, shaking hands

with the washerwoman as if she were an old acquaintance." Go, with

God's blessing, and may He protect you from all calamity, and bless

you with happiness and joy!"

He spoke loudly, as if this was intended for the ear of some person

besides the washerwoman. And another had heard the words of Toulan,

and a soft and tremulous voice called: "Farewell, Fidele; I thank

you, dear Toulan."

The wagon was at once in motion, and drove quickly down the street

through the rows of small houses in the suburbs. The two men stood

and looked after it till the washerwoman's carriage disappeared in a

cloud of dust.

Toulan raised his eyes slowly to heaven, and a pious expression

illumined his good, energetic countenance.

"Thou lookest down upon me, my queen and mistress," he said, softly

and inaudibly." I feel the glance of thy heavenly eyes, and it rests

like a hallowed blessing upon my thankful heart. I know, my queen,

that thou art satisfied with me this hour, and it seems to me as if

thy loved voice were whispering above me in the air the word Fidele.

Give me now thy blessing, that I may end my work, and rescue the

daughter and the sister as I have rescued the son. My life is

devoted to thy service, and I shall save all thy dear ones or die!"

"Well, Toulan," said Simon, softly, "I have kept my word, and little

Capet is released. Are you going to keep yours?"

"Certainly I shall," said Toulan, whose glance slowly fell from

heaven, and whose face still glowed like one in a trance. "Yes,

Simon, I shall keep my word to you as you have yours to me. Come

into your house, that I may pay you."

He withdrew quickly from the gate and entered the house which

thereafter was to be the house of the collector Simon. All was going

on busily there, for Jeanne Marie had impressed into her service not

only the sub-collector but some of the curious spectators, and she

scolded her husband, who was just coming in with Toulan, for talking

too long with the washerwoman instead of helping her.

"Do you two take the heavy mattresses and carry them into the next

room."

The two men quickly obeyed, and bore the mattresses into the

chamber. Then they locked themselves in.

Toulan took several rolls from the great waistcoat which he wore

under his blue blouse, broke them asunder, and let the gold-pieces

fall out upon the mattress.

"Count them, Simon," he said, "to see that there are exactly two

hundred and fifty double gold-pieces, all bearing the exalted

symbols of 'he one, great, and indivisible republic.' May they bring

you joy, and be a reward for the great good fortune which you have

brought to me, and to all who love the king and his house."

"But will no one reveal me?" asked Simon, anxiously, while busily

engaged in collecting the gold-pieces, and hiding them between the

mattresses. "Say, Toulan, will no one divulge and report me to the

authorities?"

"Be quiet, Simon, and fear nothing. To betray you, would be at the

same time to betray the great cause which we serve, and to surrender

the young king to the persecution of his enemies. But no one knows,

excepting me, that of your own free will you have helped save the

king. With express reference to your safety, I have made all the

other allies believe that I have deceived you, and that you know

nothing of the concealment of the child. So be entirely without

concern. Only Toulan knows your secret, and Toulan is silent as the

grave. But let us go out now and help your wife bring the things

into the house, and afterward you can let me go without any further

leave-taking. Farewell, citizen; may you be entirely successful in

your new field of labor."

He nodded with a friendly air to Simon, and as Jeanne Marie just

then called the commissioner with a loud voice, Toulan hastily

opened the door and hurried to her.

Simon followed him with a long, dark look. Then he slowly shook his

head, and his eye kindled.

"It must be," he said to himself, softly. "I should otherwise have

no rest day or night, and it would be worse than in the Temple. He

said so himself: only Toulan knows my secret. So if Toulan dies, my

secret dies with Toulan, and is buried with him, and I cart then

enjoy my life, and shall not need to live in anxiety, and in

perpetual fear of being betrayed. But," he continued, after a brief

pause, "what is done, must be done quickly, otherwise I may fall

into the very pit I have digged for Toulan! If the little Capet is

fairly carried to a place of safety, and escapes out of the

republic, Toulan can avenge himself by reporting the whole story and

bringing me to misfortune. I must, therefore, while I am secure,

take away from the fellow the means of betraying me. Yes, yes, it

must be so; Toulan must die, that Simon may live. Look out for your

own self first, and then your neighbors."

With a decided step, Simon left the room, and entered the chamber,

where Toulan was busy with Jeanne Marie in arranging the furniture.

"I am glad to find you here still," said Simon, nodding to him; "for

I had entirely forgotten to tell you that I have a present for you,

which will certainly please you, and which I have saved and laid

away expressly for you."

"What is it, Simon? What kind of a present have you for me?"

"A very precious one, at least such as you and your like will

consider so, I think. I have the long, yellow locks which Jeanne

Marie cut yesterday from little Capet's head."

"And will you give them to me?" asked Toulan, eagerly.

"Yes, that will I, and it is for that purpose that I have brought

them along. They are lying, with all the letters, in my work-box.

But I cannot get at them to-day in all the confusion, for they are

at the very bottom of the box. But come to-morrow morning, and you

shall receive your costly treasure. If you like, you can come about

nine o'clock; and if I should happen to have any thing to do, and

not be here, I will give the hair to Jeanne Marie, and she will hand

it to you."

"Be sure that I shall come," said Toulan, earnestly. "Give me your

hand, and let me thank you for your delicate act of kindness. I

certainly did you a wrong, for I did not hold you capable of such a

deed. I thank you, Simon, I thank you from my heart; and to-morrow

morning, punctually at nine, I shall be here to receive my precious

possession. Farewell till then, Simon! I have no quiet now, but must

run around and see whether every thing seems as usual in the Temple,

and our secret undiscovered." He hastened away, and disappeared

around the corner.

The whole day Simon was busy with his own thoughts, and engaged in

arranging the furniture, with his mind clearly not on his work. In

the afternoon he declared that he must go to the Temple again,

because in the upper corridor he had left a chest with some utensils

in it which were his.

"It seems to me, husband, you are homesick for the Temple," said

Jeanne Marie jestingly, "and you are sad because you are no longer

in the old, black walls."

"Yes, I am homesick for the Temple," replied Simon, "and that is why

I go there."

But he did not take the way to the Temple, but to the city hall, and

rang the bell so violently that the porter dashed to the door to

open it.

"It is you, citizen," he ejaculated. "I thought something must have

happened."

"Something has happened, and I have come to inform the Committee of

Safety," answered Simon, impetuously.

"Has it met?"

"Yes, it is in the little council-chamber. You will find an officer

at the door, and can let him announce you."

Simon strode forward and found the sentinel before the door, who

asked him what his business there was.

"Go in, citizen, and announce that Simon is here, and brings

important news, of great peril to the state."

A minute later, Simon was ushered into the hall in which the Safety

Committee were assembled. All those stern-faced men of the republic

knew Simon as a faithful and zealous republican, upon whose devotion

they could reckon, and whose fidelity was immovable.

"I am come," said Simon, slowly, "I am come to bring an accusation

against a certain person as a conspirator against the republic, and

a traitor to our liberties."

"Who is it, and what has he done?" asked the chairman, with a cold

smile.

"What has he done? He means to do something, and I mean to prevent

him. He means to release the wolf's whelp from the Temple. Who knows

but he may have done so already, for when I left the Temple this

morning, my successor had not come, and little Capet was alone. Who

is it that is able to release the boy and the two ladies? It is

Toulan, the traitor, the royalist Toulan!"

"Toulan!" replied Petion, with a shrug. "We know very well that

Toulan is a traitor, and that the republic can expect only the worst

from him that he can do. He was accused once, but escaped merited

punishment by flight, and he has unquestionably gone to Coblentz to

join the tyrant's brothers there. Our police are watchful, and have

discovered not a trace of him."

"Then allow me to put the police on his track," said Simon,

laughing. "Be so good as to send a couple of officers to me

tomorrow, and I will deliver Toulan, the traitor, into their hands."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

TOULAN'S DEATH.

The next morning, at the stroke of nine, Toulan, in the garb of a

commissioner, entered the house of the new collector at the Macon

gate. Simon received him at the door, and conducted him into the

sitting-room.

"You see," said Toulan, "that I am punctual, and I must tell you

that I have been almost too impatient to wait. I hope you do not

regret your promise, and that you mean to give me the noble present

that you promised me."

"Unfortunately I can not," answered Simon, with a shrug. "My wife

insisted on giving you the hair with her own hands, and she has just

gone out. You will have to wait for her, if you really are anxious

to possess the hair of little Capet."

"Yes, I am anxious to own it," replied Toulan. "The hair of my dear

young king will be my most cherished possession, and--"

"Come, come," interrupted Simon, "there you exaggerate. The gold

salt's-bottle, which the Austrian gave you, is a great deal dearer

to you, is it not? You still have that, have you not?"

"Still have it?" cried Toulan. "I would sooner part with my life

than with this remembrancer of Marie Antoinette!"

"Well, then, see which you would rather keep, your life, or the

bottle the Austrian gave you," said Simon, with a laugh, as he

sprang toward the door and opened it Two officials of the Safety

Committee, followed by armed men, entered.

"Have you heard every thing?" asked Simon, triumphantly.

"Yes, we have heard every thing, and we arrest you, Toulan, as a

traitor. Take him to the Conciergerie. The authorities will decide

what shall be done with him further."

"Well," said Toulan, calmly, "the authorities will, perhaps, do me

the honor of letting me go the same way that my king--and my queen

have taken, and I shall follow the example of the noble sufferers,

and die for the hallowed cause of royalty. Let us go, that I may not

longer breathe the air which the blasphemer and traitor Simon has

poisoned. Woe upon you, Simon! In your dying hour think of me, and

of what I say to you now: You are sending me to death, that you may

live in peace. But you will find no peace on earth, and if no man

accuses you, your conscience will. On your dying bed you will see me

before you, and on the day of judgment you will hear my voice,

accusing you before the throne of God as a betrayer and murderer.

May my blood come on your head, Simon!"

Simon lived to enjoy his freedom and his money only a short time. At

the expiration of a year he fell into lunacy, which soon made him

attempt his own life. He died in the Asylum of Bicetre. His wife

lived till 1821, in a hospital at Paris, and in her dying hour

asserted that little Capet was released in the way above related.

On the next day, there was a great excitement within the Temple, and

the Safety Committee repaired thither in a body. The lamplighter,

who made his rounds on the evening of the day on which Simon left

the Temple, had asserted that the child that lay upon the mattress

was not the little Capet. "He must know this," he said, "for he had

seen the child daily when he lighted the lamp in the boy's room."

The new keeper, Augustus Lasne, was very much excited at the

communication of the lamplighter, and at dawn of the next day

repaired to the city hall to report the statement. The Safety

Committee resolved on an immediate investigation of the Temple,

after pledging one another to the deepest secrecy, and enjoining the

same on all the servants at the Temple.

The officials found on the mattress a moaning, feverish boy, in the

garments of the dauphin. These they recognized as the ones which the

republic had had made a month before for little Capet, but no one

could say whether this child, with a body covered with sores, a

swollen face, and sunken, lustreless eyes, was really little Capet

or not; no one knew whether sickness had so changed his looks that

this stupid, idiotic boy was the one whom they had all known when he

was well, as they saw him joyously flitting around. First of all

they summoned Doctor Naudin, the director of Hotel Dieu, to examine

the boy. He appeared without delay, and declared solemnly and

decidedly that this was the same boy whom he had seen there some

days before when he visited Simon's wife, only the English sickness

which afflicted the child had distorted his limbs, while the cutting

off of his hair gave him a changed look, and it was no wonder that

the lamplighter failed to recognize him.

Simon, who was summoned to give evidence, asserted the same thing,

and affirmed that he recognized little Capet in the sick boy, and

that his wife had cut off his hair only the day before. He brought

the hair as a complete proof of the identity, and it was seen to

agree perfectly with that of the sick child.

Yet some of the officials still doubted, and their doubts were

increased when on the same day the servant of Count Frotte reported

to the Safety Committee that his master had made a sudden and secret

journey, accompanied by a boy, whom the count had treated with great

deference.

This boy might be the dauphin, whom Count Frotte, in conjunction

with Toulan, might have spirited out of the Temple in some secret

way, and who must be followed at all hazards. At the same time the

government were informed that the Count de St. Prix had left Paris

in company with a boy, and had taken the road to Germany.

Chazel, a member of the Convention, was sent secretly to Puy to

arrest Frotte and the boy there; and Chauvaine, another member, was

ordered to follow the road to Germany, and, if possible, to bring

back Count St. Prix.

After a while both of them returned, with nothing accomplished.

Chazel had, indeed, arrested Count Frotte and the boy in Puy, but

the count had given such undeniable proofs that the boy was not the

dauphin--he had summoned so many unimpeachable witnesses from Paris,

who recognized the boy as the son of M. de Gueriviere, who was in

Coblentz with the princes, that nothing more remained but to release

the count and his comrade.

Chauvaine had not been able to arrest the Count de St. Prix, and had

only learned that in company with a boy he had crossed the Rhine and

entered Germany.

It was of no use, therefore, to undertake farther investigations,

and the conclusion must be firmly held to that the boy in the

Temple, whose sickness increased from day to day, was the real

Capet, the son of Louis XVI. The suspicion which had been aroused

must be kept a deep secret, that the royalists should not take

renewed courage from the possibility that the King of France had

been rescued. [Footnote: Later investigations in the archives of

Paris have brought to light, among other important papers relative

to the flight of the prince, a decree of the National Convention,

dated Prairial 26 (June 14), 1704, which gave all the authorities

orders "to follow the young Capet in all directions." The boy who

remained a prisoner in the Temple, died there June 8, 1798, a

complete idiot.]

But the secret investigations, and the efforts to draw something

from Toulan, caused the authorities to postpone his fate from week

to week, from month to month. On the 20th of January he was arrested

and taken to the Conciergerie, and not till the month of May did the

Convention sentence him to death. The charge was this: that he had

accepted presents from the Widow Capet, in particular the gold

salt's-bottle, and had made frequent plans to release the Capet

family from prison.

On the same day Madame Elizabeth, the sister of Louis XVI., was

sentenced to death, on the charge of conducting a correspondence

with her brothers, through the agency of Toulan, having for its end

the release of the royal family.

When the sentence was read to Madame Elizabeth, she smiled. "I thank

my judges that they allow me to go to those I love, and whom I shall

find in the presence of God."

Toulan received his sentence with perfect composure. "The one,

indivisible, and exalted republic is just as magnanimous, is it not,

as the monarchy was in old times, and it will grant a last favor to

one who has been condemned to death, will it not?"

"Yes, it will do that, provided it is nothing impossible. It will

gladly grant you a last request."

"Well," said Toulan, "then I ask that I may be executed the same day

and the same hour as Madame Elizabeth, the sister of the king, and

that I may be allowed to remain by her side at her execution."

"Then you have only till to-morrow to live, Citizen Toulan," replied

the presiding officer of the court, "for Elizabeth Capet will be

executed to-morrow."

Early the next morning three cars drove away from the Conciergerie.

In each of these cars sat eight persons, men and women of the

highest aristocracy. They had put on their most brilliant court

attire for that day, and arranged themselves as for a holiday. Over

the great crinoline the ladies wore the richest silks, adorned with

silver and gold lace; they had had their hair dressed and decorated

with flowers and ribbons, and carried elegant fans in their hands.

The gentlemen wore velvet coats, brilliant with gold and silver,

while cuffs of the finest lace encompassed their white hands. Their

heads were uncovered, and they carried the little three-cornered hat

under the arm, as they had done at court in presence of the royal

family.

All the aristocrats imprisoned in cells at the Conciergerie had

begged for the high honor of being executed on that day, and every

one whose request had been granted, had expressed his thanks for it

as for a favor.

"What we celebrate to-day is the last court festival," said the

prisoners, as they ascended the cars to be carried to the

guillotine. "We have the great good fortune of being present at the

last great levee, and we will show ourselves worthy of the honor."

All faces were smiling, all eyes beaming, and when the twenty-four

condemned persons dismounted from their cars at the foot of the

scaffold, one would believe that he saw twenty-four happy people

preparing to go to a wedding. No one would have suspected that it

was death to whom they were to be united.

There were only two persons in this brilliant and select society who

were less elegantly adorned than the others. One was the young girl,

with the pale angel face, who sat between the sister of Malesherbes

and the wife of the former minister, Montmorin, in a neat white

robe, with a simple muslin veil, that surrounded her like a white

cloud on which she was floating to heaven. The other was the man who

sat behind her, whose firm, defiant countenance gave no token that

an hour before he had wept hot, bitter tears as he took leave of his

wife and only child. But this was all past, and on that lofty,

thoughtful brow not the slightest trace remained of earthly sorrow.

The pains of each had been surmounted, and, even in death, Toulan

would do honor to the name which that woman had given him--whom he

had loved most sacredly on earth-and he would die as Fidele.

The ladies and gentlemen of this unwontedly solemn company, who were

collected here in view of the scaffold, had dismounted from the

cars. Above stood the glistening instrument of death, and near it

the executioners. They were all left free to decide in what order

they would ascend and place the head beneath the axe. The Convention

had made the simple order that Madame Elizabeth should be the last

but one, and that Toulan should follow her.

Joyous and bright was the countenance of the princess; joyous and

bright was the aspect of the improvised court, whose master of

ceremonies was Death.

The gentlemen had begged the favor of preceding the ladies upon the

scaffold. One after another they ascended the staircase, and in

passing by they greeted the princess with the same deep bow that

would have been given at court. And Madame Elizabeth thanked them

with a smile that was not of this world.

When the heads of the twelve gentlemen had fallen, the bodies laid

on one side, and the scaffold cleansed a little from blood, the

ladies' turn came. Every one of them asked the favor of embracing

Princess Elizabeth, and, with the kiss which she pressed upon their

lips, a heavenly joy seemed to spring up in their hearts. With

smiles they ascended the scaffold, with smiles they placed their

heads beneath the axe.

The last of the ladies, the Marchioness de Crussol d'Amboise, had

received the parting kiss and ascended the steps of the guillotine.

Only Elizabeth and Toulan now remained at the foot. "Fidele,"

whispered Elizabeth in gentle tones, "I shall soon be with my

brother and my sister. Give me your hand, my brother. You shall

conduct me to death, and I will give you my hand above, at the

opening of the new life, and conduct you to Marie Antoinette.

'Sister,' I will say to her, 'this is the one true and good heart

which beat on earth for you, and I bring it to you that you may

rejoice in it in heaven.' Toulan, there is only one title of honor

for all men, and that is Fidele. It is sanctioned even by the word

of God: 'Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown

of life.'"

Just at that moment the axe rattled, there was a muffled sound, and

the head of the Marchioness Crussol d'Amboise fell into the basket.

"Elizabeth Capet, it is your turn--come up!"

"I come."

She ascended the scaffold. Arrayed, as she was, in this white robe,

her transparent face was like that of an angel. It seemed to Toulan

as if her foot no longer rested on the earth. He followed her to the

scaffold; and as she was about to ascend the steps, he laid his hand

upon her arm.

"Princess, I have a secret to impart to you. I have promised with a

solemn oath that my lips should disclose it to no mortal; but you,

Elizabeth, belong already to the immortals, the peace of God

illumines your brow, and I want you to have one last joy before you

ascend into heaven. This is my secret: The boy who is confined in

the Temple is not the dauphin. I have fulfilled the promise which I

gave the queen. I have saved the dauphin, and he is now in Vendee,

under the safe care of Prince de Conde."

"Elizabeth Capet, come up, or we must bring you by force."

"I am coming. Farewell, Fidele! you have spoken the truth; you have

given me a last joy! I thank you; now kiss my lips; give your sister

a parting kiss, Fidele. Farewell, my brother!"

He touched the lips that were illumined with a sad smile--"Farewell,

my sister!"

She ascended the steps, and, reaching the scaffold, she calmly laid

aside the veil, and prepared her toilet for death.

At the foot of the scaffold Toulan remained upon his knees; his

great eyes, which had been directed to Elizabeth, beamed with

rapture, and in his heart there were words written with a finger of

diamond--words hallowed and comforting, that Toulan read in

meditation and prayer: "Love vanquishes death; love is victorious

even over life; love, which is the highest friendship, and

friendship, which is the highest love, rise so far above every thing

earthly, that thou must surrender every thing for them, every thing

which thou hast valued upon earth, every thing which has stood to

thee in the most tender relations. In this love thou hast lived, and

in this love thou shalt die and ascend into heaven."

"Toulan, come up! Do you not hear us calling you? Do you not see

that Elizabeth Capet has made place for you?"

He had not seen when the noble head of the princess fell into the

basket, he had not heard the executioner call him; he had only read

in his heart the revelation of love.

He ascended the steps, and his countenance beamed with the same

light of rapture which had surrounded Elizabeth's brow.

A piercing scream came from the crowd, as a young wife fell

senseless into the arms of her neighbors, while the boy who stood

near her extended his hands to the scaffold, and called, loudly,

"Father, dear father!"

Toulan did not turn to them. No earthly sorrow had place in this

soul, which had overcome pain, and received eternal joy into itself.

Calmly he laid his head beneath the axe. "God is love," he said,

aloud. "He that abideth in love, abideth in God, and God--"

The axe descended, and left Toulan's last words unspoken.

BOOK VI.

CHAPTER XXIX.

WITHOUT NAME AND RANK.

The Prince de Conde was walking with quick steps up and down his

apartment. His brow was cloudy, his eyes wore a sad look, and at

times he raised his hand, as if he would remove a veil that darkened

his sight.

"It must he," he said, decisively, after a while. "Yes, it must be;

I see no other means of saving him from the snares of his enemies

and friends. He must leave, and that at once."

He walked hastily to the table, pulled the bell violently, and

ordered the servant who came in to bring the boy who came yesterday

to him.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and a boy of ten. or twelve

years, with great blue eyes, fair hair, graceful form, and delicate

complexion, came into the room. At his appearance the Prince de

Conde seemed deeply moved. He hastened with open arms to meet the

boy, pressed him closely to his heart, and kissed his fair hair and

eyes.

"Welcome, a thousand times welcome!" he said, with trembling voice.

"How long have I desired to see this moment, and how happy I am that

it has come at last! You are saved, yon are restored to freedom, to

life, and there is in store for you, I hope, a great and brilliant

future!"

"Then I shall have to thank you for it, my cousin," said the boy,

with his sweet, resonant voice. "You have released me from the

dreadful prison, and I thank you for life. I am glad, too, that I

see you at last, for I wanted so much to express my thanks, and

every evening I have prayed to God to grant me the happiness of

greeting my dear cousin, the Prince de Conde."

The joyous light had long since faded from the face of the prince,

and a cloud was gathering on his brow, as, with a timid, searching

look, he glanced around, as if he feared that some one besides

himself might hear the words of the boy.

"Do not call me your cousin," he said, softly; and even his voice

was changed, and became cold and husky.

The boy fixed his great blue eyes with an expression of astonishment

on the gloomy countenance of the Prince de Conde.

"You are no longer glad to see me here? Is it disagreeable to you

for me to call you my cousin?"

The prince made no answer at once, but walked up and down with great

strides, and then stood still before the boy, who had calmly

observed his impatient motions.

"Let us sit down," said the Prince de Conde--" let us sit down and

talk."

He gave his hand to the boy, led him to the divan, and took his own

place upon an easy-chair, directly opposite to the child.

"Let us talk," he repeated. "I should like to know, in the first

place, whether you have a good memory, for I have been told that

your head has suffered, and that you have no recollection of the

past."

A gentle, sad smile played around the lips of the boy.

"I have been silent about the past, as I have been commanded to," he

said, "but I have not forgotten it."

"Do you remember your mother?" asked the prince.

The boy trembled convulsively, a glowing red passed over his cheeks,

and a deep paleness followed.

"Monsieur," he asked, with a tremulous voice, "would it be possible

for me to forget my dear mamma queen?--my mamma queen who loved her

little Louis Charles so much? Ah, sir, you would not have asked that

if you had known how much pain you give me."

"I beg your pardon," said the prince, embarrassed. "I see you

remember. But let me try you once more. Will you tell me what

happened to you after being taken away from your cruel foster-

parents? What were those people's names, and what were they?"

"My foster-parents, or my tormentors rather, were called Mr. and

Mistress Simon. The man had been a cobbler, but afterward he was

superintendent and turnkey in the Temple, and when I was taken away

from my mamma, sister, and aunt, I had to live with these dreadful

people."

"Did you fare badly there?"

"Very badly, sir; I was scolded and ill-treated, and the worst of

all was that they wanted to compel me to sing ribald songs about my

mamma queen."

"But you did not sing these songs?" asked the Prince de Conde.

The eyes of the boy flamed. "No," he said, proudly, "I did not sing

them. They might have beaten me to death. I would rather have died

than have done it,"

The prince nodded approvingly. "And how did you escape from these

people?" he asked.

"You know, Prince de Conde," answered the boy, smiling. "It is you

who helped me escape."

"Tell me about this matter a little," said the prince, "and how you

have fared since then. I contributed, as you suppose, to your

release, but I was not present In person. How did you escape from

the Temple?"

"I was put into a basket with soiled clothes, which Mistress Simon

was taking away with her from the Temple. This basket she gave to a

washerwoman who was waiting for us at the Macon gate. She had a

little donkey-cart in readiness there, the basket was put into it,

and went on to a village, the name of which I do not know. There we

stopped; I was taken out of the basket and carried into a house,

where we remained a few hours to rest and change our clothes."

"We? Whom do you mean by we?"

"Me and the supposed washerwoman," replied the boy. "This woman was,

however, no other than M. de Jarjayes, whom I knew long ago, and

who, with Fidele--I should say, with Toulan--had thought out and

executed the plan of my escape. M. de Jarjayes changed his clothes,

as did I also, and after remaining concealed in the house all day,

in the evening we took a carriage and rode all night. On the next

day we remained concealed in some house, and in the night we

continued our journey."

"Did he tell you where you were going?"

"Jarjayes told me that the Prince de Conde was my protector and

deliverer, that the magnanimous prince had furnished the necessary

money, and that I should remain concealed in one of his palaces till

the time should arrive to acknowledge me publicly. Till then, said

M. de Jarjayes to me, I was never to speak of the past, nor

disclose--single word about any thing that concerned myself or my

family. He told me that if I did not follow his instructions

literally, I should not only be brought back to Simon, but I should

have to bear the blame of causing the death of my sister Therese and

my aunt Elizabeth. You can understand, my prince, that after that I

was dumb."

"Yes. I understand. Where did M. de Jarjayes carry you?"

"To one of the palaces of the Prince de Conde in loyal and beautiful

Vendee. Ah, it was very delightful there, and there were very

pleasant people about me. The story was that I was a nephew of the

prince, and that on account of impaired health, I was obliged to go

into the country and must be tended with great care. I had a

preceptor there who gave me instruction, and sometimes the brave

General Charette came to the palace on a visit. He was always very

polite to me, and showed me all kinds of attention. One day he asked

me to walk with him in the park. I did so, of course, and just as we

entered a dark allee he fell upon his knees, called me majesty, said

he knew very well that I was the King of France, and that the noble

and loyal Prince de Conde had rescued me from prison."

"The devil!" muttered the prince to himself, "our dear friends are

always our worst enemies."

The boy paid no attention to the words of Conde, and went on: "The

general conjured me to confess to him that I was the son of King

Louis, and I should follow him, remain with his little army, which

would acknowledge me at once, and proclaim me King of France."

"And what did you answer?" asked Conde, eagerly.

"My lord," replied the boy, with proud, grave mien, "I told you

that, I gave my word to M. de Jarjayes to divulge nothing till you

should tell me that the right time had arrived. I could therefore

confess nothing to Charette, and told him that he had fallen into a

great error, and that I have and can lay claim to no other honor

than of being the nephew of the Prince de Conde."

"You said that?" asked Conde, in amazement.

The boy raised his head with a quick movement, and something of the

proud and fiery nature of Louis XIV. flashed in his eyes.

"I did not know then," he replied, "that my relationship to the

Prince de Conde was not agreeable to him."

The prince looked troubled and perplexed, and dropped his eyes

before the piercing gaze of the boy. "Go on, if I may venture to ask

you," he said, softly. "What did General Charette do when you

repelled him?"

"First he implored, and wept, and conjured me to trust him, and to

lay aside my incognito before him, the truest and best of royalists.

But as I continued steadfast, and disclosed nothing, he became angry

at length, pushed me away from him, threatened me with his fist,

swore he would have his revenge on those who had deceived him, and

declared that I was no Bourbon, for the son of my fathers would not

be so weak and cowardly as to conceal his name and lineage."

"And you kept silent, in spite of this demand?"

"Yes, my lord, I kept silent; and, notwithstanding his pain and

grief, I left him in the belief that he had deceived himself, or

rather, that he had been deceived."

"Oh!" cried Conde, "it is plain that you have been steeled in the

school of suffering, and that the years of misfortune like yours

must each be reckoned double, for, in spite of your twelve years,

you have acted like a man!"

"My lord," replied the boy, proudly, "the Bourbons attain their

majority at fifteen, and at that age they may, according to the law

of France, become independent sovereigns. They ought, therefore, to

begin to learn young. That was the opinion of Queen Marie

Antoinette, who taught me to read in my fifth year. You, my lord,

have, in your magnanimity, done every thing to make me able to

conform to the laws of my house, if it shall please God that the son

of my dear unfortunate father should one day ascend the vacant

throne of the Bourbons. Daring these two years which I have spent in

concealment in your palace in Vendee, you have laid a strong and

firm foundation, on which the superstructure of my life may rest. I

have, thanks to the excellent teachers you have given me, had an

opportunity to learn much, and to recall much which I had forgotten

during the years before my release from imprisonment."

"Your teachers inform me that your industry was unceasing, and that

you learned more in months than some do in years. You are familiar

with several languages, and, besides, have been instructed, as I

desired, in the art of war and in mathematics."

"In the studies of kings and soldiers," replied the boy, with a

proud smile.

"I fear that you will prove not to have prosecuted those studies

with a view to their use among soldiers," said Conde, with a sigh.

"Your prospects are very dark--yes, darker even than when you left

the Temple. These two years have made your condition more perilous.

It was fortunate that you could spend them in solitude and secrecy,

and be able to finish your education, and it would be a great

blessing to you to be able to go on with your quiet studies for some

years longer. But your enemies had sought you without rest; they

were on your track, and had I left you there any longer, you would

have been found some day stabbed or shot in the park. The steward

informed me that all kinds of suspicious people had gathered in the

neighborhood of the palace and the garden, and I conjecture that

they were the emissaries of your enemies. On this I took you away

from that place, and have brought you here for your greater safety.

Now allow me one question. Do you know who your enemies are?"

"I think I know them," replied Louis Charles, with a sad smile. "My

enemies are the self-same men who brought my father and my mother to

the scaffold, destroyed the throne, and in its place gave Prance a

red cap. My enemies are the republicans, who now rule in this land,

and whose great object must, of course, be to put me out of the way,

for my life is their death! France will one day be tired of the red

cap, and will restore the throne to him to whom it belongs, so soon

as it is certain that he who is entitled to the crown, is living to

wear it."

"And who do you suppose is justified in wearing the crown of

France?"

"You ask as if you did not know that I am the only son and heir of

the murdered King of France."

"The only son, but not the only heir. Your inheritance will be

contested; and even if France should transform herself from a

republic to a monarchy, every attempt possible will be made to drive

you, the son of Louis XVI., from the throne, and put the crown on

the head of another."

"Sir, if monarchy is uppermost again, the crown belongs to me. Who,

in that case, would venture to contend with me for it?"

"Your enemies! Not those whom you have just named, but the other

half of your enemies, of whose existence you have no suspicion, it

seems-your enemies, the royalists."

"How so?" cried Louis Charles, in amazement. "Do you call the

royalists my enemies?"

"Yes, and they are so, your powerful, defiant, and untiring enemies.

Do you not see that even here in this room I do not dare to give you

the title that is your due, for fear that the walls may have ears

and increase the danger which threatens you? I will now name to you

the greatest of your enemies--the Count de Provence."

"How! my uncle, the brother of my father, he my enemy?"

"He is your enemy, as he was the enemy of your mother. Believe me,

young man, it is not the people who have made the revolution in

France; it is the princes who have done it. The Count de Provence,

the Count d'Artois, and the Duke d'Orleans--they are the chief

revolutionists; they it is who have put fire to the throne; they it

is who have sown the libels and lampoons broadcast over France, and

made the name of Marie Antoinette odious. They did it out of hate,

out of revenge, and out of ambition. Queen Marie Antoinette had won

her husband over to the policy of Austria, and in this way had set

herself in opposition to the Count de Provence, and the whole royal

family. The count never forgave her for this, and he will never

forgive you for being the son of your mother. The Count de Provence,

as he now styles himself, is your sworn enemy, and will do all he

can to bring you to ruin; he is ambitious, and his goal is, to be

the King of France!"

"King of France? The Count de Provence, the brother of the king,

wants to be his successor, when I, the son of the king, am alive and

demand my inheritance ?"

"Your demand will not be acknowledged: they will declare that you

are an impostor and a deceiver. Ah, the Count de Provence is a

selfish and a hard character. He means to make his own way, and if

you put hinderances in it, he will put you out of his path, without

compassion and without remorse; trust me for knowing this, who for

three years have been in the immediate neighborhood of the prince. I

was afraid to impart the plan of your escape to the princes, and,

after you were released, I was silent, for a secret is only safe

when a very few are conscious of it. But after the news came last

year from Paris, that the boy who had been placed as your substitute

in the Temple had died, after a long sickness, I ventured to inform

the Count de Lille about the real facts. I told him that I believed

that information I had received might be relied upon, that King

Louis XVII. had been released from the Temple by true and devoted

servants, and was then in a place of safety. Would you like to know

what reply the count made?"

"I pray you, tell me," responded Louis Charles, with a sigh.

"He answered me, 'I advise you, cousin, not to put any confidence in

such idle stories, and not to be duped by any sly rogues. My

unfortunate little nephew died in the Temple--that is a fact

acknowledged by the republic, universally believed, and denied by no

one. After long sufferings the son has fallen as a new victim to the

bloodthirsty republicans, and we are still wearing mourning for our

deceased nephew, King Louis XVII. And should any wise-head happen on

the thought of making the dead boy come to life again, I will be the

first to disown him and hold him as an impostor.' Those were the

words of the count, and you will now confess that I am right in

calling him your enemy, and in not daring to communicate to him the

secret of your release?"

"I grant you," replied the prince, sadly, "I would rather bury the

secret forever."

"Now, hear me further. A few weeks ago the prince summoned me, and I

saw on his sinister face and in his flashing eyes that he must have

received some unwelcome tidings. He did not make me wait long for

the confirmation of my conjectures. With a sharp, cutting voice he

asked me what kind of a nephew of mine that was whom I was educating

at my palace in Vendee. General de Charette had given him

information through one of his emissaries sending him word that the

report was current in Vendee that this alleged nephew of mine was

the rescued King Louis XVII., whom I had helped release from the

Temple. He, General Charette, had believed it at first. He had

therefore (so the prince went on to say) visited my palace recently,

for the purpose of discovering the supposed young king. There he

convinced himself that the boy bore no resemblance to the little

Louis Charles--whom he had once seen at the Tuileries--and that he

certainly was not the son of Louis XVI."

"He told me only too truly that he would have his revenge,"

whispered the young prince.

"He has kept his oath, for he has loudly and publicly declared his

belief that Louis XVII. died in the Temple, and he has therefore

administered to his army an oath in favor of King Louis XVIII.--that

is, the Count de Provence. The count himself informed me of this,

and then added, threateningly, 'I advise, you, cousin, either to

acknowledge your young nephew, and treat him openly, or else put him

out of the way. I advise you further, not to let yourself be imposed

upon by adventurers and impostors. It is known that you were among

the most active adherents of Queen Marie Antoinette, and there may

be people who would work on your credulity and make you believe that

the poor little Louis Charles was really released from the Temple.

Do not deny that you parted with much money at that time, and

believed that it was wanted for the purpose of setting the young

King of France free. It was a trap, set in view of your loyalty and

devotion, and you fell into it. But you gave your money to no

effect, the poor, pitiable king could not be saved, and died in the

Temple as a prisoner of the republic. Take care how you trust any

idle stories, for, I tell you, you would never bring me to put

confidence in them. I am now the rightful King of France--I am Louis

XVIII.--and I am resolved not only to declare every pretender who

claims to be Louis XVII. an impostor, but to bring him to punishment

as a traitor. Mark this well, and therefore warn this mysterious

nephew of yours not to venture on playing out his comedy, for it

will assuredly change into tragedy, and end with his death.' These

were the words of the Count de Lille, and now you understand why I

have brought you so suddenly, and so secretly, away from my solitary

palace and have you here."

"I understand every thing," said Louis Charles, with a sigh; "I

understand, that it would have been better if you had never released

me, and I had died like my father and mother."

"We must postpone the accomplishment of our hopes," said Conde,

sadly, "for I confess to you, there is little to expect from the

present, and there is no place where you are safe from the

persecutions and the daggers of your enemies. The republicans desire

your death as much as the royalists. In France, two parties threaten

you, and would I now risk every thing, carry you to some European

court and acquaint the sovereign of your arrival, and ask for his

assistance, I should have no credence, for, not the French republic

alone, but the Count de Lille would protest against it, and disavow

you before all Europe. It is, therefore, absolutely necessary, in

order to secure you against your enemies, that you should disappear

for a season, and that we patiently await the time which shall

permit us to bring you back upon the scenes."

"Do you believe that time will ever come?" asked the little prince,

with a shake of the head.

"I believe it, and, above every thing, I hope it," replied Conde,

quickly. "The greatest difficulty is to find a place for you to

remain where you may not be suspected, and where yon may be safe

from assault. To my great regret I cannot entertain you here, for my

family are too well known for me to suddenly acknowledge a

legitimate nephew of your age, and the Count de Lille would be the

last to believe it. I confess that it has cost me a great deal of

disquiet and anxious thought to find a secure asylum for you."

"And do you think you have found one at last?" asked Louis Charles,

indifferently.

"Yes, I believe so, or rather, I know that I have found one. You

must be taken to a place which no one can suspect as that where you

would be likely to be."

"And what place is this?"

"It is called Mayence."

The boy, who had sat with downcast eyes, perhaps in order not to let

some tears be seen, looked quickly up, and the greatest astonishment

was depicted in his expressive features.

"Mayence?" he asked. "Is not that a fortress on the Rhine which the

troops of the French republic have taken possession of?"

"Yes; and the commandant of Mayence, the head of the troops, is

General Kleber, one of the bravest and noblest soldiers of the

French republic."

"And you, you want to send me to this General Kleber? Ah, my prince,

that would be thrusting me, for the purpose of rescuing me from

persecution, into the very crater of the volcano."

"It is not so bad as you suppose, my young friend. General Kleber is

at heart a good and true royalist, and although he serves the

republic, he does so because he is first of all a soldier, a soldier

of his country, and because his country now has pressing need of

soldiers to defend the honor and glory of France. I have sent a

trustworthy man to General Kleber to impart this secret to him, and

to ask him for protection, and a place of refuge for you. General

Kleber is ready to grant both, and he has sent his adjutant to

Coblentz to escort his nephew to Mayence. You are that nephew, and

if you give your consent, you will set out at once and go to

Mayence."

"And if I do not give my consent?" asked Louis Charles, with a

proud, flashing look.

"I confess," said Conde, with a shrug--"I confess that I am not

prepared for that contingency, and cannot on the instant grasp all

the unfortunate results which would ensue on your refusal."

"Be calmed, Conde, I do not refuse. I have only this one thing to

care for, to cause no danger, and bring nothing disagreeable to you,

for I see that they are in store for you if I do not disappear again

from view. The son of the king vanished from sight, to appear as the

nephew of Conde; and now the nephew of Conde is to vanish, to emerge

as the nephew of General Kleber. Ah,--who knows but I may yet be the

nephew of Simon the cobbler, preparatory to my last appearance on

the guillotine?"

"I hope, on the contrary, that on the day when France shall rise

again, you will rise too, the acknowledged son of Louis XVI., and

the heir of the throne of France. At present the republic has sway,

and there is no hope of an immediate change. But that will not last

always; and in the decisive hour, when the monarchy and the republic

come to their last great battle for existence--at that hour you must

appear upon the field, must lift the lilies high in the air, and

summon the royalists to your side in the name of God, and of the

king your father."

"And what if my uncle, the Count de Provence, then declares me to be

an impostor?"

"Then you must publicly and solemnly appeal to France, lay the

proofs of your lineage before the nation, summon unimpeachable

witnesses, and demand your throne of the French nation. And believe

me, if the heart of France is compelled to choose between you and

the Count de Provence, it will not choose him, for the count has

never possessed the heart of the people, and God is just."

"God is just," replied Louis Charles, sadly--"God is just, and yet

the King and Queen of France have perished on the guillotine, and

their brother calls himself King of France, while the son of Louis

XVI. must find shelter with a general of that French republic which

was the enemy of my parents."

"It is true," said Conde, with a sigh, "it is very difficult at

times to see the justice of God, but we must always hope to see it,

and at length it will reveal itself in all its glory. And the hour

of judgment will come for you. Await it steadfastly and with

patience, and when it is come, call on me, and I will not neglect

your summons, but will support you, and will give you my

recognition. I have all the documents which relate to your flight,

all the testimony given by those who were engaged in assisting you,

and besides this, a detailed account of your flight, subscribed with

my name, and stamped with my seal. I have further the testimony of

the teachers who gave yon instruction at my palace of Chambord, and

the keeper of the palace recorded the day on which you arrived. I am

ready to give you these papers, if you will swear to me that you

will not misuse them, but give them to General Kleber, that he may

preserve them for you."

"I swear to you that I will do so," said the prince, solemnly.

Conde handed to him a small and closely-rolled package of papers.

"This contains your future," he said, "and out of these papers I

hope a crown will grow for you. Till then let the republic preserve

them for you. General Kleber is expecting you, and his adjutant is

waiting for you in the next room. Permit me to give you one more

piece of advice: remain steadfast, resist all tempters who would

beguile you with pleasant words to acknowledge yourself King of

France. For be persuaded these tempters are the emissaries of your

enemies, and if you should acknowledge to them that you are King

Louis XVII., you would be writing your own death-warrant. The balls

which I trust will spare the nephew of General Kleber would

certainly pierce the heart of the nephew of Count de Lille. Continue

to deny it as you denied it to General Charette. Swear to me that

you will faithfully keep the secret of your lineage till I release

you from the oath by which I now close your lips, and tell you that

the hour of action and of disclosures is come; swear it to me, in

view of the fidelity which I have shown to you, and which I shall

always be ready to show."

"You have saved my life," said Louis Charles, solemnly. "My life,

therefore, belongs to you, and I give it into your hands in

swearing, by the memory of my dear parents, and especially my noble

and proud-spirited mother, Queen Marie Antoinette, that I will

faithfully and truly keep the secret of my parentage, and not feel

myself justified in revealing it to the world, till you, the Prince

de Conde, shall have given me permission, and empowered me to do

so."

"I thank you," said Conde, "for I am now unconcerned about your

immediate future. General Kleber and the French republic will

protect you, for the present, from the dangerous pretender, Count

Lille, and, in God's providence, I trust there will come a day when

France will be prepared to raise the son of its kings to the throne

which belongs to him. Let us hope for this day, and be persuaded

that I shall neglect nothing which will help bring it about. And

now, as we part, I bow my knee to you, my young king; I now

acknowledge you solemnly as the son of my well-beloved cousin, King

Louis XVI., and the rightful heir of the throne of the lilies. May

the spirits of the murdered royal couple, may God and the ear of my

king take note of the oath which I now pronounce. I swear that I

will never acknowledge any other prince as King of France, so long

as you, King Louis XVII., are among the living. I swear that if I

ever break this vow, and acknowledge another King of France, you,

Louis XVII., may accuse me of high-treason, and condemn me to the

death which a traitor deserves. I swear that I will subject myself

to this death-penalty without opposition and complaint. And this I

swear by Almighty God, and by the memory of your royal parents,

whose spirits are with us at this hour."

"And I, Prince de Conde, I accept your oath," said Louis Charles,

gravely. "I go away now into exile, but I carry your oath with me as

my hope for the future, and may God grant that I shall never be

compelled to remind you of it, but that you will faithfully and

truly keep it. Fare you well! My crown rests in your heart."

"And in these papers, sire. Deliver them to the brave General

Kleber, and he will preserve them as his most sacred and cherished

possession."

He kissed the hand of the prince, which was reached out for the

papers, and then hastened to summon the officer, who was waiting in

the adjoining room for the nephew of General Kleber, having no

suspicion what an important mission was intrusted to him.

But General Kleber knew the secret better, and although not a word

and not an action disclosed it, yet the gentle friendliness, the

mild look, the subdued smile with which the general received his

young nephew in Mayence, testified that he was familiar with the

secret, and knew how to guard it.

In Mayence, under the care of General Kleber, his nephew, Louis, as

he called him, remained during the subsequent time, and very soon

gained the heart of his uncle, and was his inseparable friend by day

and by night. They slept in one room, they ate at one table. The

nephew accompanied his uncle at all parades and military exercises;

and, in order to make his favorite a skilful soldier, the general

undertook the duties of teacher, gave him instruction in the art of

war, and taught him the more familiar duties of a soldier's life.

The nephew comprehended readily, and pursued zealously the studies

which his uncle assigned him. The pains and sorrows of the past were

forgotten, and only the recollections of his happy child-hood rested

silently at the bottom of his heart like pearls at the bottom of the

sea.

"When shall I arise from this estate? When will the crown of the

future be linked with these pleasant recollections of the past?"

These were the questions which the growing boy repeated to himself

every morning and every evening. But his lips never uttered them; he

never gave the slightest indication that he was any thing else than

the nephew of General Kleber. The French garrison of Mayence

considered him to be so and no one thought of asking whether he bore

any other name. It sufficed that he was the nephew of the noble,

valiant, and heroic General Kleber. That was the name and rank of

the little prince.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE BARON DE EICHEMONT.

Thus passed weeks, months, and even years, and on the gloomy horizon

of France arose a new constellation, and from the blood-spotted,

corpse-strewn soil of the French republic sprang an armed warrior--a

solitary one!--but one to whom millions were soon to bow, and who,

like the divinity of battles, was to control the destinies of

nations and of princes. This one solitary man was General Bonaparte,

the same young man who in the first bloody days of the French

Revolution beheld the storm at the Tuileries, and expressed his

regret to his companion--the actor Talma--that the king did not

command his soldiers to mow down the canaille with grape-shot. The

young lieutenant of that day, who had been the friend of the actor,

dividing his loaf and his dinner with him, had now become General

Bonaparte. And this general was serving the same people which as a

lieutenant he had wanted to mow down with grape-shot. At the siege

of Toulon, in the close contests with the allies against the

republic and in the Italian campaign of 1794, Bonaparte has so

distinguished himself that the eyes of the French government were

already directed to him, and no one could be surprised at the action

of General Beauharnais' widow, the fair Josephine, in giving her

hand to the young and extraordinary man. This marriage had not only

brought happiness to Bonaparte, but it satisfied his ambition.

Josephine was the friend of Barras and Tallien, the chief

magistrates of the republic at that time, and through her influence

the young Bonaparte was sent to Italy to assume the chief command of

the French army there. A general of twenty-six years to have the

direction of an army, whose four corps were commanded by Generals

Massena, Augereau, Serrurier, and La Harpe! The father of Junot, the

late Duke de Abrantes, wrote at that time to his son, who was with

the French army in Italy: "Who is this General Bonaparte? Where has

he served? Does anybody know any thing about him?" And Junot, who

was then the faithful friend and the admirer of Bonaparte, replied

to his father: "You ask me who General Bonaparte is. I might answer,

in order to know who he is, you must be he. I can only say to you

that, so far as I am able to judge him, he is one of those men with

whom Nature groans, and only brings forth in a century."

Had Junot not replied to his father, the deeds of the young general

would soon have done so. Presently, in all France, in all Italy,

yes, in all Europe, there was not a man who could ask, "Who is

General Bonaparte?" His name was in every mouth, and the soldiers

adored the man who had stood victoriously at their head at Lodi and

Milan, and borne the banner forward amid the murderous shower of

balls at the bridge of Arcoli. Diplomatists and statesmen wondered

at him who had taken Venice, and compelled proud and hated Austria

to make peace with the French republic, which had brought Marie

Antoinette to the scaffold. The republicans and the Directory of the

republic feared Bonaparte, because they recognized an enemy of the

republic in him, and dreaded his growing power and increasing

renown.

On this account General Bonaparte was recalled from the Italian army

after peace had been made with Austria, and he returned to Paris.

Still he was so feared that the Directory of the republic, in order

to remove him, and at the same time to give occupation to his active

spirit and his splendid abilities, proposed to Bonaparte to go with

an army to Egypt, and extend the glory of France to the distant

East.

Bonaparte entered with all his fiery nature into this idea which

Barras and Talleyrand had sought to inveigle him into, and all his

time, his thoughts, and his energies were directed to the one

purpose, to fit himself out with every thing that should be needful

to bring to a victorious end a long and stubborn war in a foreign

land. A strong fleet was collected, and Bonaparte, as the commander

of the many thousands who were to go to Egypt under him, called to

his aid the most skilful, valiant, and renowned generals of the

French army.

It could not fail that one of the first and most eminent of these

was General Kleber, and, of course, his young adjutant and nephew

Louis accompanied him.

On the 19th of April, 1798, the French fleet left the harbor of

Toulon, and sailed toward the East, for, as Bonaparte said, "Only in

the Orient are great realms and great deeds--in the Orient, where

six hundred millions of men live."

But these six hundred millions have no army such as the French is,

no commander like Bonaparte, no generals like Murat, Junot, Desaix,

and, above all, Kleber.

Kleber was the second in command. He shared his perils, he shared

his victories, and with him was united his nephew Louis, a youth of

fourteen years, who, from his tall, slim figure, his gravity, and

his ready understanding, would have passed at least for a youth of

eighteen, and who, trained in the school of misfortune, belonged to

those early-matured natures which destiny has steeled, that they may

courageously contend with and gain the victory over destruction.

It was on the morning of the 3d of July. The French army had

disembarked, and stood not far from Alexandria, on the ancient

sacred soil of Egypt. Whatever was done must be done quickly, for

Nelson was approaching with a fleet, prepared to contend with the

French for the possession of Alexandria. Should the city not be

taken before the arrival of the English fleet, the victory would be

doubtful. Bonaparte knew this well. "Fortune gives us three days'

time at the most," cried he, "and if we do not use them we are

lost!"

But he did use them! With fearful rapidity the disembarkation of the

troops was effected; with fearful rapidity the French army arranged

itself on Egyptian soil in three divisions, under Morand, Bon, and

Kleber. Above them all was he whose head had conceived the gigantic

undertaking, he whose heroic spirit comprehended the whole. This was

Bonaparte.

After inspecting all the army and issuing his orders, he rode up the

hill in company with his staff to the pillar of Pompey, in order to

observe from that point the course of events. The army was advancing

impetuously, and soon the city built by Alexander the Great must

open its gates to his successor, Bonaparte the Great.

After a short respite, the army advanced farther into the land of

the pyramids. "Remember," cried Bonaparte to his soldiers, pointing

to those monuments--"remember that forty centuries look down upon

you."

And the pyramids of the great plain of Cairo beheld the glorious

deeds and victories of the French army, beheld the overthrow of the

Egyptian host. The Nile murmured with its blood-red waves the death-

song of the brave Mamelukes, and the "forty centuries" which looked

down from the pyramids were obliterated by the glorious victories

that Bonaparte gained at the foot of those sacred monuments. A new

epoch was to begin. The old epoch was buried for Egypt, and out of

the ruins of past centuries a new Egypt was to be born, an Egypt

which was to serve France and be tributary to it as a vassal.

This was Bonaparte's plan, and he did every thing to bring it to

completion. He passed from battle to battle, from victory to

victory, and after conquering Egypt and taking up his residence in

Cairo, he at once began to organize the newly-won country, and to

introduce to the idle and listless East the culture of the earnest

and progressive West. But Egypt would not accept the treasures of

culture at the hand of its conqueror. It rose again and again in

rebellion against the power that held it down, and hurled its

flaming torches of revenge against the hated enemy. A token of this

may be seen in the dreadful revolt at Cairo, which began in the

night of the 20th of October, and, after days of violence, ended

with the cruel cutting down of six thousand Mamelukes. A proof of it

may be seen in the constantly renewed attacks of swarms of Bedouins

and Mamelukes on the French army. These hordes advanced even to the

gates of Cairo, and terrified the population, which had at last

taken refuge beneath the foot of the conqueror. But Bonaparte

succeeded in subjugating the hostile Bedouin tribes, as he had

already subjugated the population of the cities. He sent one of his

adjutants, General Croisier, with a corps of brave soldiers, into

the desert to meet the emir of the hostile tribes, and Croisier won

respect for the commands of his general. He succeeded in taking

captive the whole body. A fearful sentence was inflicted on them.

Before the eyes of their wives, their children, and their mothers,

all the men of the tribe, more than five hundred in number, were

killed and their heads put into sacks. The howling and weeping women

and children were driven to Cairo. Many perished of hunger on the

road, or died beneath the sabre-blows of their enemies; but more

than a thousand succeeded in reaching Cairo. They were obliged to

encamp upon the great square El Bekir, in the heart of Cairo, till

the donkeys arrived which bore the dreadful spoils of victory in

blood-dripping bags upon their backs. The whole population of Cairo

was summoned to this gigantic square, and was obliged to look on

while the sacks were opened and the bloody heads rolled out upon the

sacred soil of Egypt.

After this time quiet reigned for a season. Horror had brought the

conquered into subjection, and Bonaparte could continue his

victorious course. He withdrew to Syria, taking with him Kleber and

Kleber's young adjutant, the little Louis. He saw the horrors of

war; he was there, the son of the Kings of France, when the army of

the republic conquered the cities El Arish and Gaza; he took part by

the side of Kleber in the storming of Jaffa. He was there when the

captured Jaffa had to open its gates to the victors. He was there

when, in the great caravansary, four thousand Turkish soldiers

grounded their arms and surrendered themselves as prisoners, after

receiving the promise that their lives should be spared. He was

there, too, the son of Marie Antoinette, when the unfortunates were

driven down to the sea-coast and shot, in order that their enemies

might be rid of them. He was there, the son of Louis XVI., when

Bonaparte visited the pest-house in Jaffa; he walked through the

sick-rooms at the side of his uncle Kleber, who noticed how the face

of the young man, which had so often been calm in meeting death on

the battle-field or in the storm of assault, now quivered, and the

paleness of death swept over his cheeks.

"What was the matter, my son?" asked Kleber, as he returned home

from this celebrated visit to the pest-house. "Why did you turn pale

all at once, Louis?"

"General," responded Louis, perplexed, "I know not how to answer."

"You ought not to have gone with me to the hospital," said Kleber,

shaking his head. "You know I did not want you to go at first; but

you insisted on it, and begged and implored so long that at last I

had to yield and let you accompany us. But, I confess it myself, it

was a dreadful sight, these sick people with their swollen bodies

covered with blood and running sores. I understand now why you

trembled and turned pale--you were afraid of this dreadful

sickness?"

"No, general," answered Louis, softly--"no, I have no fear. Did you

not notice that I sprang forward and assisted General Bonaparte,

when he lifted up the poor sick man who lay on the floor before the

door, and that I helped carry him into the room?"

"I saw it, Louis, and I was much pleased with your courage, and was

therefore surprised afterward when you turned pale and trembled, and

I saw tears in your eyes. What agitated you all at once so much?"

The young man slowly raised his head and looked at Kleber with his

great blue eyes. "General," he said, softly, "I myself do not know

what agitated me so much. We were both standing before the bed of a

sick man, to whom I handed a pitcher of water which he begged for

earnestly. He fixed his great eyes upon me, and his quivering lips

murmured: 'God bless you! all saints and angels protect you!' As he

spoke these words, there resounded in my heart the echo of a time

long since past. It seemed to me as if suddenly a dark curtain

parted, and I looked as in a dream at a wondrous, brilliant

spectacle. I saw a beautiful and dignified woman of princely figure,

of noble, majestic nature. With her I saw two children, a girl and a

boy, whom she led by the hand, and with whom she walked through a

long hall which was filled with rows of beds. And as she walked

there, it seemed as if the sun lightened up the dismal hall, and

illumined the pale faces of the sick ones. They raised themselves up

in their beds and extended their thin, emaciated hands to the tall

lady, and thanked her with earnest blessings for her visit and her

comforting words. There was only one of the patients who did not

rise, but lay stiff upon his bed and moaned and sighed and whispered

unintelligible words, which no one heeded, because the attention of

all was fixed upon the great visitor. But the boy who was walking by

the side of the tall lady had understood the sobs of the sick one.

He left his mother, took the jug which stood upon a table between

two beds, filled a glass with water from it, and held it to the dry,

quivering lips of the sick one. He drank greedily, and then fixed

his eyes upon the boy and lisped the words: 'God bless you! all

saints and angels protect you!' And all the people repeated aloud:

'God bless you, all saints and angels protect you!' The dignified

lady stooped with a heavenly smile to her son, pressed a tender kiss

upon his golden locks, and repeated the same words aloud. This,

general, was the fantasy which suddenly appeared before my eyes when

the patient spoke those words to-day. It seemed to me as if I

perceived all at once a long-silent song of home. I heard the

wonderful voice of the exalted lady who spoke those words. It seemed

to me as if I felt the kiss which she then imprinted on the head of

the five-year-old boy, felt it to my inmost heart, and it glowed

there with the fire of an undying love, and shook my whole being,

and filled my eyes with tears. You will not chide me for that,

general, for those were the lips of my mother who pressed that kiss

of blessing on her unhappy son."

He ceased, tears choked his utterance, and, as if ashamed of his

deep emotion, he hid his face in his hands.

General Kleber turned away too, and put his hand over his eyes, as

though a film had come over them. Then, after a long pause he gently

laid his hand upon the shoulder of the young man, who was still

sitting with covered face.

"Such memories are holy," he said, "and I honor them, my dear,

faithful son. May the blessing which then fell from the lips of a

woman whom I too knew and honored, but whose name may never be

spoken between us, may it be fulfilled to you! May angels and saints

protect you when men shall no longer have the power, and when fate

shall separate you from those who have devoted their love and

fidelity to you!"

The youth let his hands fall from his face, and looked at the

general with a startled, searching glance.

"What do you mean, uncle? You do not mean to say that--"

"That we must part? Yes, my dear nephew, that is what I must say,"

interrupted Kleber, sadly. "This word has long been burning in my

soul, and it is necessary that I speak it. Yes, we must part,

Louis."

"Why, oh why?" asked Louis, bitterly. "Why will you too drive me

away? You, the only one who loves me a little!"

"Exactly because I love you--exactly for that reason must I separate

myself from you. Since we came to Egypt you have been sickly, your

cheeks have become pale. The fulness of your limbs has gone, and the

dry and hard cough that troubles you every morning has long made me

anxious, as you know. On that account, after all the appliances of

my physician failed, I applied, as you know, to the physician of the

commanding general, to Corvisart, and he has subjected you to a

thorough examination."

"It is true," said Louis, thoughtfully, "he has investigated me with

the carefulness of a merchant who is about to buy a slave and means

to test him. He made a hearing-trumpet of his ear and laid it on my

breast, and listened while I had to breathe as if I were a volcano.

He put his ear to my heart, he told me that his father had been

physician at the French court, and that the murdered queen had a

great deal of confidence in him, and then he wondered that my heart

beat so violently while he told me this."

"And the result of all these investigations is, that you must return

to Europe, Louis," said Kleber, sadly. "Corvisart had declared it an

unavoidable necessity for your constitution, and the command of the

physician must be obeyed as if it were the command of God. You

cannot endure the climate of Egypt, so says Corvisart, and if your

life is not to be shortened and you to be made a perpetual invalid,

you must return to Europe as quickly as possible, for only there

will you recover and grow strong. You see therefore, Louis, that I

must separate from you, although it is a sore thing for me to do,

for I love you as my own son, and I have no one in the world who is

nearly related to me."

"And I, whom else have I in the world?" asked Louis, bitterly. "Who

has interest in me excepting you? Ah, general, do not drive me from

you. Believe me, it is better for me if for a few short and happy

years I live at your side, and then breathe my last sigh in your

faithful and tender arms, than if I have to wander solitary and

friendless through the strange, cold world, where no one loves me,

and where I shall always be surrounded by enemies, or by those who

are indifferent. It may be that my body will gain health and

strength in the air of Europe, but my heart will always be sick

there, for it will lose its home when it shall have lost you, my

fatherly friend."

General Kleber slowly shook his head. "In youth one sorrows and

forgets it quickly."

"General, do you say that to me, after seeing me weep in the

hospital because the word of a dying man called back the

recollection of my earliest childhood? Oh, believe me, my heart

forgets its sorrows never, and if I must return to France, to Paris,

it will seem to me as if I had always to be climbing the hill of

Calvary with bloody feet to reach the top where I might perish on

the cross. For, believe me, general, my whole life will be nothing

but such a wandering through scenes of pain if you drive me from the

refuge that your love has offered me. Leave me here, let me live in

secrecy and silence beneath the pinions of your love, and do not

believe what the physicians tell you. Man's life lies in the hands

of God, and if He will sustain it, it is as safe in the deserts of

Egypt as in Paris, the capital of the world."

"Because God will sustain your life, Louis, for that very reason, He

instructs me, through the voice of the physician, what my duty is,

bids me conquer my own grief, and send the son of my heart to his

distant home. No, Louis, it is a decided thing, we must part; you

must return to France."

"And if it is true," asked Louis, bitterly, "if I am then really to

return to France, why must we part? Why must I return without you?

Why, if you really love me, do you not accompany me? I heard you say

yesterday that several ships, with a part of our troops, were to

return to France. Why, then, can you not go back with me?"

"Why?" asked Kleber, sadly. "I will tell you, Louis: because

Bonaparte will not allow it. Listen, my son, I will communicate a

secret to you: there has news come within the last few days, the

first that we have received for ten months. The newspapers which

have arrived bring very unwelcome intelligence; they inform us that

all the advantages gained in Italy by the French army have been

lost--that France is arrayed against Austria, Spain, and all the

European powers--that the French Government is threatened by

internal factions, which threaten to bring back the reign of terror.

I watched Bonaparte's face as he read these papers, and I saw there

what he was resolved to do. He will, as soon as he shall gain one

more great victory, leave Egypt and return to France."

"He will not return without you, the faithfulest and boldest of his

generals. You know well that you are called the right-hand man of

Bonaparte."

"Bonaparte means to show the world that he is not only the head, but

the right arm too, the heart, the foot, the soul of the French army!

And because he means to show this, he will return alone to France;

only a few of his faithful subordinates will accompany him; the men

who might even oppose him, and put hinderances in the path of his

growing ambition, will remain here. Now do you believe that

Bonaparte will select me to accompany him?"

The young man let his head fall slowly on his breast. "No," he said,

softly, "no, I do not believe he will."

"And I know he will not," replied Kleber. "I shall remain here in

Egypt, and die here! Hush! Do not contradict me; there are

presentiments which do not mislead us, and which God sends to us,

that we may shape our course by them, and set our house in order. My

house is set in order--my will is made; I have given it to

Bonaparte, and he has solemnly sworn to carry it into execution in

all respects. Only one care is left me--to provide for your

immediate future, and to arrange that yon may reach France."

"You adhere to this?" asked Louis, sadly.

"Yes, I abide by this; you must not run away from your own future,

and this will, I trust, be a brilliant one. All tokens indicate that

France is wearied with the republic, and that it is perhaps nearly

ready to restore the throne of the Lilies. Young man, shall this

reestablished throne fall into the hands of that man who contributed

so much to its downfall--who was the calumniator, the secret enemy

of Queen Marie Antoinette? Would you consent that the Count de

Provence should be King of France?"

"No, never!" cried Louis, with blazing eyes and naming face. "That

never can be; for, before the brother of Louis XVI. can ascend the

throne as Louis XVIII., his rightful predecessor, Louis XVII., must

have died."

"He has died, and the French government has placed in its archives

the certificate of the death of Louis Charles Capet, signed by the

physicians and the servants of the Temple. My son, in order to

prevent the Count de Provence acknowledging this certificate as

genuine, you must be prepared to place before him and the world

other testimonials that Louis XVII. is not dead. This is a sacred

offering which you must make to the manes of the unfortunate Marie

Antoinette, even if the stake were not a throne and a crown!"

"You are right," cried Louis, with enthusiasm, "my whole life shall

be devoted to this sacred trust; it shall have no other aim than

this: to avenge Marie Antoinette of the most cruel of her enemies,

the Count de Provence, and to place the son, whom, after the death

of her husband, she acknowledged as King of France, on the throne

which really belongs to him, and not to the Count de Provence! You

are right, general, I must return to Europe; I must carry to Prance

the papers which show that Louis XVII. did not die in the Temple,

but was released. I am ready to go, and to endure the pain of

parting from you."

"May God grant that we may both be compensated for this pain!"

replied Kleber, embracing the young man tenderly. "There remain to

us a few weeks to be together. Let us use them so that they shall

afford us many cheerful recollections. Bonaparte will not leave

Egypt before adding one more glory to his reputation. He does not

mean to return to France as the conquered, but as the conqueror!"

General Kleber was right. He knew Bonaparte sufficiently well to be

able to read his countenance; he understood the dumb speech of the

Caesar of the age.

Bonaparte wanted to gain one great battle, in order to return to

Europe with glory. He gained it at Aboukir, winning the day in a

contest with the united Turks and English--one of the most signal

victories that he had ever won. Eight thousand prisoners were taken

on that 21st of July, 1799. Four thousand lay dead upon the battle-

field, and as many were sunk in the captured and destroyed ships of

the English. On the day after the battle the foam of the waves was

tipped with blood along the shore.

Bonaparte himself conducted the whole battle, and personally gained

the victory. At the moment when the contest seemed doubtful, he

assumed command of a cavalry regiment, advanced upon the Turkish

pacha, and by his heroic courage kindled all the army afresh. Even

General Kleber could not disguise his admiration of the hero of

Aboukir; and when, at the close of the battle, he met Bonaparte on

the field, he embraced him with passionate tenderness. "General," he

cried, with enthusiasm, "you are as great as the world; but the

world is not great enough for you!" [Footnote: Denon, Mtooires, vol.

i., p. 349.]

The victory that Bonaparte desired was thus won, and he could return

with honor to Prance. He made secret preparations for his journey

thither, fitting up two ships, which were to carry him and his

companions. The army was to hear of his departure only after he had

gone; but, much as he desired to keep the thing secret, there were

some who had to know of it, and among them, happily, was General

Kleber. Bonaparte had chosen him as his successor, and therefore he

must be informed respecting the condition of affairs before the head

of the army should withdraw. On the same day when this communication

took place, Kleber repaired to General Desaix, who was his intimate

friend, and from whom he learned that he was to be one of

Bonaparte's companions on the return. The two generals had a

prolonged secret interview, and at the close of it they both went to

Kleber's house, and entered the room of his adjutant Louis. General

Desaix bowed with great deference to the young man, who, blushing at

the honor which so distinguished a general paid him, extended his

hand to him. Desaix pressed a kiss upon it, and from his eyes,

unused to tears, there fell a drop upon the young man's hand.

"General," cried Louis, in amazement, "what are you doing?"

"I am paying my homage to misfortune and to the past," said Desaix,

solemnly, "and the tear which I drop on your hand is the seal of my

fidelity and silence in the future. Young man, I swear to you that I

will cherish your secret in my heart as a hallowed treasure, and

will defend with my life's blood the papers which your uncle,

General Kleber, has intrusted to my care this day. I am a soldier of

the republic, I have pledged my fidelity to her, and must and shall

keep it. I cannot become a partisan; but I shall always be the

protector of misfortune, and a helper in time of need. Trust me in

this, and accept me as your friend."

"I do accept you, general," said Louis, gently, "and if I do not

promise to love you just as tenderly as I love my uncle, General

Kleber, who has been to me father, brother, and protector, and to

whom I owe every thing, yet, I can assure you, that, after him,

there is no one whom I will love as I shall you, and there is no one

in Europe who can contend with you for my love. I am very poor in

friends, and yet I feel that my heart is rich in love that no one

desires now."