“I am the King of the French.”
It seemed as if the crowd which had gathered around the two promenaders had only waited for this announcement. Cries of “Vive le Roi!” many times repeated, burst forth. The people surrounded the king, who smiled at some, offered his hand to others, and had a kind word for all.
“There is a great king and a great people,” thought Martin, who returned to the Capelette to narrate his royal adventure and acquaint the whole department with the king’s promises.
Seventeen years wore away. Martin, tired of the monotony of the country, and living alone with his son, who was still a child, resolved to go once more to Paris. Scarcely had he arrived at a hotel, when he hurried to dress himself in his best, saying that, although the king had not kept his promise, he owed him the first visit. “I shall see him in his garden,” said he: “he will be less embarrassed than if I were to call at his palace.”
He found the entrances to the Tuileries blocked up, and motley crowds, who were loud in their cries, surrounded the palace. “What excellent people!—what love for their sovereign!” thought honest Martin.
Multitudes of ragged boys were running through the streets, singing,—
“Mourir pour la patrie,
C’est le sort le plus beau,
Le plus digne d’envie:
C’est le sort * * * *”
“What youths! What noble youths!” cried honest Martin, with tears in his eyes.
Seeing that he could not approach the garden from the side of the Rue de Rivoli, he went round to the Place de la Concorde. Just as he arrived at the quay, a small half-hidden gate in the wall opened before him, from which issued an old man, wearing a blue blouse, leaning on the arm of another man scarcely less aged than himself.
“Monsieur Martin,” said he, “help me, I pray you, to get into this cab.”