There once lived in Paris a poor charcoal man whose name was Jacquot. [Footnote: pro. zhak ko'] His house was small, with only one room in it; but it was large enough for Jacquot and his wife and their two little boys.
At one end of the room there was a big fireplace, where the mother did the cooking. At the other end were the beds. And in the middle was a rough table with benches around it instead of chairs.
Jacquot's business was to sell charcoal to the rich people in the city. He might be seen every day with a bag of charcoal on his back, carrying it to some of his customers. Sometimes he carried three or four bags to the palace where the little king of France lived with his mother.
One evening he was very late coming home. The table was spread and supper was ready. The children were hungry and could hardly wait for their father to come.
"The supper will get cold," said Charlot,[Footnote: pro. shar lo'] the eldest.
"I wonder why he is so late," said his little brother,
Blondel.[Footnote: Blon del'.]
"There is to be a great feast at the queen's palace to-night," said the mother." There will be music and dancing, and many fine people will be there. Perhaps your father is waiting to help in the kitchen."
The next minute they heard his voice at the door: "Be quick, boys, and stir the fire. Throw on some chips and make a blaze."
They did so, and as the flames lighted up the room, they saw their father enter with a child in his arms.
"What's the matter?" cried the mother. "Who is that child?"