“I was hidden beneath the bed, for the room was invaded by soldiers, who cried in a strange tongue, ‘Long live the King.’ ‘Cry away,’ I said, ‘it is easy to see that you are not Hares, and that the king has not been making game of you.’ Soon the ‘redcoats’ disappeared, and a poor man—a scholar, I believe—came and sought shelter in my room. He had no taste for war; he therefore deposited himself in a cupboard, where he was soon discovered by a crowd of bloodstained ruffians, who searched everywhere, crying ‘Liberty! long live Liberty!’ as if they had hoped to find it in some odd corner of the Tuileries. After fixing a flag out of the window, they sung a striking song, commencing—
“ ‘Come children of the country,
The day of glory has arrived!’
Some of them were black with powder, and must have fought as hard as if they had been paid for it. I thought that these poor begrimed creatures, as they kept continually shouting ‘Liberty!’ must have been imprisoned in baskets, or shut up in small rooms, and were rejoicing in their freedom. I felt carried away by their enthusiasm, and had advanced three steps to join in the cry of ‘Liberty!’ when my conscience arrested me with the question, ‘Why should I?’
“During these three days—would you believe it, my dear magpie?—twelve hundred men were killed and buried.”
“Bah!” I said, “the dead are buried, but not their ideas!”
“Hum!” he replied.
“Next day my master came back: he had not shown himself for twenty-four hours. He was changed—he had ‘turned his coat,’ an operation which cost him a pang, as he had made a good thing out of the king’s livery. Men turn their coats as easily as the wind turns the weathercock on yonder spire. It is a mean artifice, to which we could not descend without spoiling our fair proportions.
“I learned from my master’s wife that there was now no king. Charles X. had gone never to return, and the worst of all was, that they themselves were ruined. You observe, the downfall of the king was viewed selfishly, not as a national calamity, but simply as an event which blighted their own fortunes. That is the way of men. Secretly I rejoiced at the disaster, as it rendered my emancipation possible. Alas! my dear little Hares, Hares propose, and man disposes. Have no faith in the liberty born of the blood and agony of revolution. The change wrought by strife only embittered my lot. My master, who had never been taught any useful occupation, was reduced to living on his wits, which served him so badly, as to leave him often without bread. He was brought to such straits as we Hares are when the snow lies heavy on the ground. I have seen his poor child weeping for the food that men often find so difficult to procure. Be thankful, my children, that you are not men; and that you can feed on the simple herbs as nature has provided them. Although suffering from hunger, I felt many a bitter pang for my little mistress. If the rich only knew the appetite of the poor, they would be afraid of being devoured. I more times than once saw my master eye me with ferocity. A famished man has no pity; I believe he would almost eat his own children. You will readily understand, therefore, that my life was in the greatest danger. May you ever be kept from the peril of becoming a stew.”
“What is a stew?” inquired the little Hare in a loud voice.