me.”

At this moment the diligence passed. With one bound, Eusebe seated himself beside the postilion.

M. Martin closed the window, and, as he with a large plaid handkerchief wiped away a tear that was ready to fall, said,—

“Plague on the curates! they are always sticking their noses where they have no business!”

CHAPTER II.

M. Martin was neither a wicked man nor a fool, but he was a confirmed skeptic. For forty years (he was now sixty) he had been disappointed in all the events of his life.

When it became necessary for him to marry, he had to choose between two of his cousins, who were equally accomplished and equally beautiful. He preferred the one who pleased him least, because she was of a more robust constitution than her sister. Nine years afterwards she died, while the delicate sister was still living.

Martin was half ruined by a friend of his youth, for whom he would have given his life.

One day, when he was from home, one of his outbuildings caught fire, and the flames would have communicated to his dwelling but for a man, who, at the risk of his life, succeeded in arresting them. This man was his only enemy!

Well informed for a man of his condition, and endowed with a fair share of sense, he was looked up to by his neighbors with a certain degree of deference. He studied hard in order to strengthen a reputation of which he was proud; but in so doing he was not slow to discover that he knew nothing.

His first visit to Paris was still fresh in his memory. It was in September, 1832. One morning he went to breathe the fresh air in the garden of the Tuileries, when a man of a noble and friendly mien, wearing a gray hat, commenced conversation with him.

“You are a stranger in Paris?”

“I am from Limousin,” replied Martin.

“You are a manufacturer, perhaps?”

“No: I am a farmer.”

“I am not acquainted with your section of the country, but I have heard it highly spoken of.”

“We have, indeed, a beautiful country,” replied the countryman,—“rich and picturesque, industrious and patriotic: we are in want of but one thing,—a river.”

“But you have the Vienna.”

“The Vienna is not navigable.”

“Could it not be made so?”

“It is the dream of the entire population of Limousin.”

“Monsieur, what is your name?”

“Martin.”

“Very well, Monsieur Martin: when you return home, tell your neighbors that in less than three years their river will be navigable.”

“Who are you,” asked Martin, “who speak with so much authority?”

A bland smile lighted up the features of the man with the gray hat, as he replied, with simplicity,—

“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,—

“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.”

“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.

CHAPTER III.

On the evening of the day on which he left home, Eusebe arrived at the railroad-depot. He approached the ticket-office, and said to the agent,—

“I want to go to Paris.”

“Which class car do you wish, sir?”

“The best.”

“Fifty-four francs,” replied the agent.

Eusebe handed him three louis, and received six francs in return.

“There,” thought Eusebe, “is a clever fellow: it did not take him a minute to tell how much was coming to me.”

“And now,” he asked, “could you tell me, sir, where I will find the carriage?”

“The train, you mean.”

“I don’t know. Is that the name of the vehicle that is to transport me to Paris?” asked Eusebe, timidly.

“Vehicle!” cried the man. “What do you call a vehicle? Your jesting is ill timed, sir. Here is your car: another time try to be a little more polite.”

“This man,” said Eusebe to himself, “is not so clever, after all: he is a fool,—an ignoramus!”

Eusebe’s journey was without incident. Alone in a first-class coupé, he made himself a couch, on the floor, of the cushions, and, placing his valise under his head for a pillow, he slept quietly until daylight.

When he awoke, he had passed Orleans. His eyes, half open, glanced at the country, and a cry of admiration escaped him.

“Oh, what splendid farms! what beautiful fields!” cried