The child made no reply, and did not even raise his head; his face was hidden in his hands.
“You cursed young wolf!” roared Simon, choking with passion, “yesterday you would not shout ‘Vive la Republique!’ but you see now, blockhead, that the Republic shall live forever! You shall say with us, ‘The Republic shall live forever!’”
As he spoke, he seized the Dauphin by both shoulders and shook him with all his strength, as if to force the words from his mouth. After exhausting his fury, the cobbler paced up and down the floor for some time, then stopped beside the bed of the weeping child and said gruffly:
“It is your own fault, fool; you well deserved your treatment.”
“Let him alone, Simon,” said his wife; “he is blind, the little one. He was brought up on lies and deception, and knows no better.” And, somewhat disconcerted, the cobbler turned away.
Not long after this, the police scattered through the streets of the city low songs and scurrilous rhymes against the “Austrian she-wolf,” as the unfortunate Marie Antoinette was called, and Simon procured some of these sheets.
“Come, Capet,” said he one day to the little Prince, holding out to him some abominable verses about his mother, “here is a new song you must sing for me.”
The boy glanced at the song, and threw it indignantly on the table. Simon immediately flew into a rage, and said threateningly:
“I believe I said you should sing, and you shall sing!”
“I will never sing such a song as that!” replied the boy, with a firm determination against which the cobbler’s rage was powerless.