The King beckoned me, but not knowing how to address me, he said, “My young friend, you say that the Duc d’Enghien gave you that gun?”
“Yes, sire. I understand,” said I, “that the King wishes to know upon what occasion this gun was presented to me. I was the nephew of a park-keeper of the Forest of Argonne, whose name was Father Descharmes. The Duc de Condé and the Duc d’Enghien often hunted in this forest. The Duc d’Enghien took a fancy to me, and gave me this gun.”
The King, for a moment, appeared buried in thought.
“Your uncle is still alive?” he then asked.
“Sire, he is dead?”
“Why do you not solicit his place?”
“Because, sire, the keepers wear livery. I am a free man.”
“Children suck in republican ideas, even with their mothers’ milk!” murmured the King.
He then threw himself back in his carriage.
I know not if the King spoke again; but the carriage at the moment stopped; and, perchance, with it stopped something of importance.