Three Sides of Paradise Green

by Augusta Huiell Seaman

"The boy, Jean Mettot, later became a soldier in Napoleon's army and rose to the rank of officer. He finally married little Yvonne Clouet, and, as you have doubtless surmised, this John Meadows whom you know is his descendant,—his grandson, in short. The original Jean Mettot, however, and my grandfather, the marquis, kept closely in touch with each other for a time, drawn together by their mutual love and loyalty to the little dauphin. It was Jean Mettot alone who, several years after the escape of the dauphin, was summoned by that young man to Havre, in order that the dauphin might bid farewell to his rescuer. The dauphin was sailing for America, never to return. He intended, he said, to live there incognito, in some obscure capacity, as he had no desire ever to return to France and certainly never wished to rule over that nation.

"Jean Mettot later attempted to communicate the news of the dauphin's departure to my grandfather, but found that he had suddenly passed away and that his son had assumed the title. As Mettot was not certain whether the secret had been handed down to the son, he did not reveal his news. Many years later, when he was a middle-aged man, the notion took hold of him to go to America and see if he could discover any trace of the dauphin. He had nothing whatever to assist him, except the assumed name of the dauphin, 'Louis Charles Durant,' and the fact that the ship on which he had sailed had been bound for a New England port. I think it was Boston. With only these two points to aid him, he sailed for America to engage in his almost hopeless task.

"In all the years he had heard not so much as one syllable from the exile, but even this did not discourage him. He began his search in New England, shrewdly suspecting that 'Louis Durant' might not have traveled very far from his first landing-place. Many weeks and months of absolutely useless and fruitless effort followed. No one in any of the large cities, or even in the smaller towns, seemed to have heard of 'Louis Charles Durant' or of any one corresponding to his description. It was by sheer accident—when Jean Mettot's horse (he made it a practice to travel about on horseback) went lame one stormy night right by your Paradise Green—that he was forced to ask for a night's shelter in one of the only two houses on the Green at that time. It was on the door of the Durant house that he knocked, and none other than the dauphin himself opened it!"

At this point in the narrative Sue and Carol breathed a long sigh of intense interest, and the Imp came closer and rested her hand on Monsieur's knee.

"Yes, it is marvelous, is it not?" he went on. "There is a proverb which says, 'Truth is stranger than fiction,' and I have always found it so. I leave you to imagine the meeting between those two, for they quickly recognized each other. After a time Mettot heard the whole story from the dauphin. It ran like this:

"He had come to America, landing in New England and wandering about for a time, almost penniless and earning his way as he went by doing odds and ends of labor for the farmers. Singularly enough, he enjoyed it. Does it seem strange to you, mes enfants, that a king should enjoy himself in this fashion? Ah, but he no longer wished to be a king! Not for all the riches of the earth would he have gone back to his country and assumed his rightful title. His terrible childhood years in prison had given him a longing only for freedom and independence of thought and action and a desire for the most absolute simplicity of life.

"To Jean Mettot he confided how at length he had drifted out to this present farmstead, had apprenticed himself to the good farmer who owned it, and how for several years he had served him faithfully and well for a sum that was a mere pittance, but on which he could live happily. Two years later the farmer's daughter, who had married some time before, came home to her father's house a widow. After a time she and the dauphin became mutually attracted to each other and married. Six months after their marriage the farmer died, leaving his farm to his daughter and her husband, the unknown dauphin. At the time of Jean Mettot's visit they had a fine little son, then ten or twelve years old, and were as happy and contented as could well be imagined.

"Mettot made them quite an extended visit, but never did the dauphin reveal to his wife that he had ever known Mettot before, or give the least hint of his own identity. He said that he preferred these things to remain secrets forever, buried in the past. He told Mettot that he desired his descendants to remain in complete ignorance of his past and of their own origin. Should a crisis ever arise (now unforeseen by him), when it would be wise for any of his descendants to know their forefather's history, he had prepared for such an emergency a document which he had securely hidden away. He acquainted Jean with its hiding-place and gave him permission to transmit the secret to his own descendants. On no account, however, was it to be communicated to the dauphin's descendants, unless the aforementioned crisis should arise.

"Jean Mettot went back to France, and never again saw the son of Louis XVI. But he continued to keep in touch with 'Louis Charles Durant' of America, and to his own son he communicated the strange secret. And his son, in turn, communicated it to a son of his own, the present Jean Meadows whom you know. The dauphin died when he was scarcely more than middle-aged, for his constitution was never robust after the cruel hardships of his childhood. The son whom he left lived to a ripe old age on the same farm, and left an heir in his place to continue the line. This child, the father of our own Louis, becoming discontented, as he reached manhood, with the life on a simple New England farm, leased the property, as you probably know, and went out West to make his fortune. He married a young western girl on the Canadian frontier, and both were mortally injured in a terrible accident on one of the Great Lakes' steamers. He had time, however, before he died, to send word to France, to this present Jean Mettot, leaving their baby son in his care. The two families had always kept in touch, though none of the present generation had seen each other.

"I am sure you must be wondering during all this recital where I come into the story. It is about time for me to make my entrance. That is what I am about to disclose. Mettot and his daughter Yvonne, on hearing the sad news, forsook all and came to America to take possession of the baby, which was still being cared for at the hospital where its parents had died. The Mettot family had not prospered with the years, the present Jean's father having unfortunately lost the modest fortune that the original Jean had amassed. They were living in a humble way in a small French village, and had practically sacrificed everything to come over to America on what they considered an almost sacred charge.