"But, Louis," I found the courage to say, "it's really a wonderful thing. You ought to be proud of it."
"Proud of what?" he demanded fiercely.
"Of—of being the descendant of a French king," I said.
"I've been proud as Lucifer all my life to be an American," he answered. "What are French kings to me? And I am an American, too! Not a thing he's said can make me anything else. I don't care if my ancestor did come here from France. Every American's ancestors came from somewhere else, if you go back far enough. That doesn't alter things."
"Yes, that is perfectly true. You are just as much an American as ever," I admitted, thinking of that side of it for the first time. "But if that's so, I can't see what you're so down-hearted about."
"What do you think it means to me to give up all my plans and ambitions in life and go over to France and become a French nobleman by adoption; to devote myself to every interest but the one I'm wrapped up in and fitted for during all the rest of my days?"
"But, Louis," began the Imp, "if you feel so—strongly about it, why do you have to do it? Couldn't you persuade Monsieur to let you do something else? He's simply devoted to you. Surely he'd be willing to meet your wishes, somehow."
"You don't understand," answered Louis. "Can't you see that I'm under an absolute obligation to meet his wishes? I'd be an ungrateful brute, if I did anything else. You must realize what his ancestor did for mine. I wouldn't be in existence to-day, if it hadn't been for what the original marquis did to help the—the dauphin to escape. Why, I'm also under a tremendous obligation to the Mettots for the same reason. And then, there's something else you don't know about that makes it even worse. I haven't a cent in this world, nor ever have had, that hasn't been supplied by Mon—by the marquis."
"You had this farm, didn't you?" I interrupted, for Louis has always told us that this farm was his, or at least would be his when he came of age. That was all the Mettots had ever told him about his affairs.