Louis began to read aloud, stopping often to decipher a word
Louis cleared his throat nervously, and began to read aloud in French, stopping often to decipher a word that was blurred by the stains of time. As the two girls, Carol and Sue, could understand little or nothing of what he read, they could only watch curiously the expression on the faces of the other auditors. But before Louis had read far, that expression became singularly different on each of those five eager countenances. Miss Yvonne leaned forward from her packing-box, her eyes startled and unbelieving. Old John Meadows ruffled his white hair distractedly with his hands and muttered, "What? what?" in English, and other expressions in French. The Imp's big blue eyes fairly danced with amazement, and pleased amazement, at that. Monsieur stood listening, his hands clenched, his head thrust forward, his eagle-like gaze intent, unbelieving, stricken. Only Louis read on stolidly, as if the content had not yet registered itself on his mind.
Suddenly he threw down the paper and shouted, "Hurrah! hurrah!" and then more solemnly, "Oh, thank God! I'm so glad."
"What is it? what is it?" cried Sue and Carol, simultaneously. "Please tell us! We haven't understood a word of it."
"You poor things!" he exclaimed gaily. "Listen! I'll translate it for you. It's very short." And he went on to translate from the ancient paper as follows:
I who write this am the Dauphin of France, who should have been Louis XVII. I escaped from the Temple Tower in my tenth year by means which I shall not attempt to explain here. All that is known to others who could make it public to the world if I so wished. I do not, however, wish it. My only desire is to remain forever hidden. Should there, however, arise at any future time a cause or reason for making descendants of mine aware of the truth of their real ancestry, I wish to make this statement. I have no descendants. The boy whom Jean Mettot supposes to be my son is no flesh-and-blood heir of mine. The boy is the son of my wife by her former husband. He was a young child, less than two years old, when I married her, and so fond did I become of him that I felt no difference and wished to feel no more difference than if he were truly my own. But no Bourbon blood runs in his veins, praise God, and heirs of his may never inherit the throne of France. I am ill and weak, when writing this, and I feel that death is not far away. Only Jean Mettot knows the hiding-place I have designed for this document. I pray God there may never be need to disclose it.
Louis Charles.
"But—but," stammered Sue, when Louis had finished, "what does this mean?"
"It means," cried Louis, "that I haven't a drop of Bourbon blood in me! It means that I'm a plain, American boy, after all!"