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"There was little danger of his imposing himself upon the court. Yet you are rather to be commended than censured, Bellenger. Did this pretender know you were in Paris?" "He saw me there." "Many times?" "At least twice, monsieur the abbé." "Did he avoid you?" "I avoided him. I took pains to keep him from knowing how I watched him." "You say he flaunted.
"Have I the honor, Monsieur Bellenger, of saluting the man who brought the king out of prison?" the old man inquired. Again Bellenger made the marquis a deep reverence, which modestly disclaimed any exploit. "When was this done? Who were your helpers? Where are you taking him?" Bellenger lifted his eyebrows at the fanatical royalist. "I wish I had had a hand in it!" spoke Philippe de Ferrier.
You were the boy taken from the Temple prison." "Who did it?" "Agents of the royalist party whose names would mean nothing to you if I gave them." "I was placed in your hands?" "You were placed in my hands to be taken to America." "I was with you in London, where two royalists who knew me, recognized me?" "The two De Ferriers." "Did a woman named Madame Tank see me?" Bellenger was startled.
No doubt he had behaved, as Bellenger said, for the good of the royalist cause. But the sanction of heaven was not on his behavior. Bonaparte was let loose on him like the dragon from the pit. And Frenchmen, after yawning eleven months or so in the king's august face, threw up their hats for the dragon. In his second exile the inner shadow and the shadow of age combined against him.
The facts are simply these: I faced Bellenger; no blows passed; my mind flashed blank with the partial return of that old eclipse which has fallen upon me after strong excitement, in more than one critical moment. The hiatus seems brief when I awake though it may have lasted hours. I know the eclipse has been upon me, like the wing-shadow of eternity; but I have scarcely let go of time.
"What proof can you give me?" "First, sire, permit a man who has been made a wretched tool, to implore forgiveness of his rightful sovereign, and a little help to reach a warmer climate before the rigors of a northern winter begin." "Bellenger, you are entrancing," I said. "Why did I ever take you seriously? Ste. Pélagie was a grim joke, and tipping in the river merely your playfulness.
The abbé began as if the idiot attracted his notice for the first time. "Who is the unfortunate child you hold with your right hand?" "The dauphin of France, monsieur the abbé," spoke out Bellenger, his left hand on his hip. "What! Take care what you say! How do you know that the dauphin of France is yet among the living?"
"I am taking this boy to America, monsieur the marquis," the painter quietly answered. "But why not to one of his royal uncles?" "His royal uncles," repeated Bellenger. "Pardon, monsieur the marquis, but did I say he had any royal uncles?" "Come!" spoke Philippe de Ferrier. "No jokes with us, Bellenger. Honest men of every degree should stand together in these times."
"Who placed you there?" "No one could tell me except my Indian father; and he would not tell." "Do you remember nothing of your childhood?" "Nothing." "Did you ever see Bellenger before?" "I never saw him before to-night." "But I saw him," said Madame de Ferrier, "in London, when I was about seven years old.
Instead of being smooth shaven, he wore a very long mustache which dropped its ends below his chin. A court painter, attached to his patrons, ought to have fallen into straits during the Revolution. Philippe exclaimed with astonishment "Why, it's Bellenger! Look at him!" Bellenger took off his cap and made a deep reverence. "My uncle is weeping over the dead English, Bellenger," said Philippe.
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