“Who are you? I do not recollect you,” said the astonished rustic.
“An hour ago I was King of the French,” replied the old man.
“Ah! sire,” cried Martin, preoccupied by the one idea, “the Vienna is not yet navigable.”
“It is true: I failed to keep my promise, and I am cruelly punished.”
The cab drove rapidly away, while Martin remained fixed to the spot, unable to comprehend the meaning of this royal apparition. He was, however, soon roused from his revery by a noisy crowd that issued from the little gate.
“The brigand has escaped us,” cried they.
“We will have him before he gets far.”
“So much the better.”
“Unfortunate king! deluded people!” murmured the countryman; and he took the road to the Capelette, where he lived in solitude. His mind became more and more wavering. Having no one with whom to engage in discussion, he had contracted the habit of controverting his ideas himself, and the consequence was, that he had become a skeptic in every thing. This was the reason why he had brought up his son as he had done, or, rather, the reason why he had not brought him up at all.