When the wicked wretches who put them there heard of this, and found out how patiently and sweetly these dear children bore their trials, and that their little innocent heads drooped every night in peaceful slumber, they were very angry; so they resolved to try other means of tormenting them. So they called the executioner, and ordered him to go to their dungeon once a week, and draw out one tooth from each of them. Just think of that! You have had a tooth taken out, I dare say, but your mother, or father, or sister was by your side, and holding your hand, and pitying you with all their might, and wishing they could bear the pain for you, and that gave you courage. And then it was soon over, and only for once; and the bad toothache from which it delivered you was, after all, worse to bear. But the little princes had no toothache; they had a bad heartache, but trusting in God, they were trying to be patient, and love even a little mouse, since they were denied everything else. Oh! how mean and cowardly that great, big, strong man—that executioner—must have felt, when he went in to torment two such little angels!
When he told them what he had come for, the youngest boy commenced crying, and the elder brother said to the executioner, “I beg you not to draw out a tooth from Frank; you see how weak he is, and how ill!”
Then the executioner, hard as he was, shed tears; still he knew that he must carry back two teeth, or have his own head cut off; and so told the boys.
“Well, then,” said the elder brother, the brave Henri, “take out two from my mouth, instead of one from my brother’s; I am strong, but the slightest pain will kill him.” For a long time the two boys struggled which should suffer for the other, until a messenger was sent, to know why the executioner did not return—why he delayed. Then he advanced to the cage, and drew a tooth from Henri, and was going toward Francis, when Henri cried out, “No, no; take the other from my mouth; don’t touch Francis!” and the executioner carried back two teeth; but they were both from the mouth of the brave Henri. Every week he went back to the dungeon, and every week did this heroic boy lose two teeth, one for himself one for his brother; but alas! his bodily strength began to fail, though his little lion heart was strong as ever. His limbs no longer sustained him; he doubled up in the bottom of the cage, and tried to put out his hand to his little brother.
“Frank,” said he, “I am dying; but perhaps, some time, you may get out; if you should, and you should find our mother, oh, tell her how I love her, just as I am about to die. Good by, Frank! give some crumbs every day to our little mouse for me, won’t you, Frank?” and the next moment, before Frank could answer him—so stupefied was the child with grief—the brave Henri was dead, and nobody was in the dungeon but Frank and the little mouse.
Nobody, did I say? Ah! God was there. Why he permitted all this suffering, neither you nor I know; but I hope we shall know one of these days. The angels are always learning such things in heaven. It puzzles me often now, when I think about them, and sometimes I get impatient, and wish God would tell me right off why he permits this, when he could so easily prevent it; and then I think of the many, many times, in which I have shed impatient tears at my own troubles, and then time has passed on, and I have seen, even in this world, with my dim, earthly eyes, how much better it was that those very things should have happened which grieved me so. But with our bright, heavenly eyes, in the broad, clear light of eternity, how easily, dear children, shall we untwist these tangled threads of life, which seem to mock our efforts here. We can wait, for, just as sure as that God reigns, it is all right.
Dear me! I suppose you are very impatient to know what became of poor Frank, when he was left alone? Well, soon after Henri died, the wretches who imprisoned the two innocent children died also; and then Frank was taken from his dungeon, and set at liberty. Oh! how glad he must have been to see the blue sky, and the green fields, and the sweet flowers, and, better than all, to find his dear mother.
What a sorrowful story he had to tell her! and how many times they wept, to think of poor Henri, and how the mother wept at night, over little Frank, while he was sleeping, whose dungeon tortures had made him a cripple for life. Ah! it is not well to be a little prince.
Let me tell you another story, of a child who was born of a noble family in France. His father and grandfather were both great generals; they had been in many battles, and were considered very brave men; but war is such a terrible, terrible thing, is it not? husbands, fathers, and brothers falling to the ground, like grass before the mower’s scythe; but in those days war was not spoken of in this way. Dead men were thought no more of than dead sheep; unless, indeed, it might be some great commander or general. As if a soul wasn’t a soul, no matter whether it lodged in the body of a common soldier or his officer. As if a common soldier’s relatives would not grieve at his loss as much as the relatives of his commanding officer for him. As if sorrow did not sit down in the hovel, as well as in the hall. As if an orphan were not an orphan, and a widow a widow, in every rank of life. But, as I tell you, people did not think this way when this lad lived, of whom I am about to tell you. It was all glory and epaulettes. Little Paul had guns and swords, and flags and drums, put into his hands almost as soon as he was born, by his father and grandfather, who wished to train him up for a great hero. When he was a very good boy, his reward was to play battle with his grandfather, with a set of pasteboard soldiers, to teach him how to manage the enemy in difficult positions; and all this boy’s dreams, by day and night, were of such things. When he was only ten years old, his father was commanded to join the army, for there was to be a great battle, a real battle. So he told his wife, who cried very much, that he was going to leave her, perhaps for ever; and then he took his little boy in his arms, to bid him good by. Paul did not cry, but he looked his father in the face very steadily, and said, “Papa, I must go too. I must fight by your side in that battle!” This pleased his father and grandfather very much; and his mother began to be frightened, for fear that they would really consent to the child’s going; and sure enough they did, and little Paul was half beside himself with joy, that he was to take part, with real swords and real men, in a real battle. Perhaps you say, Oh, of course, his father took care that he should not be in any danger, and made everything easy for him. Not at all, as you shall hear; for little Paul insisted, as soon as he joined the army, that no favor should be shown him because he was so young, and because he had been born of a noble family, and brought up tenderly; he insisted upon sharing all the fatigue and danger, and felt quite insulted, if any of the old men in the army seemed to fear for him, or not think him capable of his duty. He wanted to do just as the common soldiers did; sleep on the bare ground, and eat of their common food. A week after he had joined the army, he had proved himself so brave, that they made him ensign, and gave him the colors to carry. Perhaps you say, Of course, his father did that! No; the whole regiment were quite proud of him, and said that the little fellow deserved it. You must not think that he forgot his mother, who was so anxious about her boy. He wrote her a little letter, which was a funny mixture of childishness and manliness, telling her that he had a wound in his right arm from the enemy, who wished to seize his pretty flag. “That would have been fine, indeed!” wrote little Paul, “when I had just had it given me to defend!” Then he tells her, that his new hat was spoilt, but that he can get another, and that once he fell off his horse, when the enemy rushed at them, but soon was up again, firing his pistols after them. Three months the child was there, in the army, and often suffered much from cold and other causes; but he never complained; and when not engaged in fighting, used to laugh as merrily as any other child of ten years old, and at as trifling things.
But at last came a day, which was to decide the battle, one way or another. On the morning of that day, Paul’s father took him in his arms, and said, “Give me a kiss, Paul; for we may never meet again.” Paul gave him two—one for his mother—and then they separated. Little Paul was stationed away from his father, at a post which he was not to leave without permission from a superior officer.