When a Cobbler Ruled a King.

by Augusta Huiell Seaman.

FOREWORD

About the tradition of the "Lost Dauphin" there hovers a romance and charm perennially new, and history contains perhaps no more appealing little figure than that of Louis XVII of France.

At the time when the tempest of the French Revolution submerged the throne of the Bourbon monarchy, Louis Charles, royal Dauphin, was but a child of seven. On his sunny head, for the s.p.a.ce of three years, the Terror wreaked its vengeance; and at the age of ten, it would have been difficult to recognize in the forlorn little captive of the Temple Tower, aged by imprisonment and abuse, and experienced in many forms of suffering, the once light-hearted and lovely child of Versailles and the Tuileries.

History in its most accepted form has chosen to close this regrettable chapter with the death of the little prince at the age of ten, and while still in his unjust captivity. With the receding years, however, there has arisen a not unreasonable doubt of this premature ending. Evidences strangely convincing have come to light, revealing a possibility of his having been rescued, spirited away from his native land, and allowed to live out the alloted number of his days in peaceful obscurity.

There are few of us who do not welcome this possibility, who do not relish the thought that his watchful and heartless tormentors may have been cleverly hoodwinked. And added to our pleasure in a happier fate for this much-wronged child of monarchy, is the delightful romance and mystery with which a possible escape and an existence thenceforth incognito has surrounded the history of the "Lost Dauphin." In the field of fiction the subject affords an all but endless variety of solution, and numerous are the romances woven about the person of "Little Capet."

Curiously enough, few if any of these novels are quite suitable for younger readers, though the subject is one that should have a special appeal for the hearts of youth, since the chief personality is a child of peculiarly winning characteristics, and one who endured diversified and exciting vicissitudes.

Such a story I have striven to relate in _When a Cobbler Ruled the King_, endeavoring to present a picture, faithful as far as it goes, of the historical and political situation. It may add to the interest of the story to know that except for the persons of "Jean," "La Souris" and "Prevot," who are pure fiction, there is not one character in the book but has a counterpart in history. These characters are in the main obscure enough to admit of much lat.i.tude in fict.i.tious presentation. The Citizeness Clouet, of number 670 rue de Lille, was actually the laundress for the Temple Tower, and her little daughter was occasionally introduced into the prison by Commissary Barelle to play with the captive prince. Had there been schemes of escape concocted by the few friends remaining to royalty, as doubtless there were, it would be scarcely strange if the laundress had been involved in them.

Be these things as they may, it is to be hoped that the history of the throneless, crownless, ill-used child-king, Louis XVII of France, will make its own appeal to the hearts of all childhood.

A. H. S.

RICHMOND HILL, L. I.

February, 1911.

CHAPTER I

IN THE DAUPHIN'S GARDEN

"Hurry along, Yvonne! Why do you lag behind so!"

"Oh, Jean! I am doing my best, but your legs are so long, and you take such great strides that I can scarcely keep up!"

Two children, a well-grown, long-limbed boy of twelve, and a little girl of scarcely more than seven, were hurrying hand-in-hand along the Rue St. Honore, on a brilliant May morning in the year 1792. Paris on that day resembled, more than anything else, a great bee-hive whose swarming population buzzed hither and thither under the influence of angry excitement and general unrest. The two youngsters were bubbling over with the same eager restlessness that agitated their elders. They pushed their way through throngs of men in red liberty-caps, soldiers in uniforms of the National Guard, and women in tri-coloured skirts and bodices. Poor little Yvonne, panting and tired, struggled to keep up with the striding gait of her larger companion.

"If you don't hurry," said Jean, "we shall not see the little 'Wolf-Cub'

out for his walk, and I want a look at him!"

"Is he very dreadful to look at?" queried Yvonne, innocently.

"I don't know,--I've never seen him," answered Jean, "but he must be pretty ugly if he's the son of a monster,--and that's what they call our Citizen King!"

They turned into a narrow lane with but few houses on either side. At one end stood the church of St. Roch, and at the other lay the park of the Tuileries, in the centre of which rose the royal palace.

"This is called the Rue du Dauphin because the little monster comes through it when he goes to church," remarked Jean.

"Well, I think he can't be so very dreadful if he goes to church,"

protested Yvonne.

"Oh, he only pretends to be good to deceive us!" answered Jean, carelessly.

When they reached the park, they turned and ran along the edge till they came to the side flanked by the river Seine. Here they were stopped by a low wooden fence decorated with festoons of tri-coloured ribbons and bunting. In a small plot of ground behind this fence, a little boy could be seen digging up the ground about some flower-beds. He was a really beautiful child and his age evidently did not much exceed seven years.

Great blue eyes looked out of a face whose expression was one of charming attractiveness. His silky golden-brown hair fell in curls about his shoulders, and he was dressed in the uniform of a tiny National Guard, with a small jewelled sword hanging at his side. About his feet a handsome, coal-black spaniel romped, shaking his long ears that almost trailed on the ground, barking and biting at the spade in his master's hand.

Jean stopped and looked over the fence. His snapping black eyes grew soft at the sight of the group within. What boyish heart does not yearn toward a dog!

"That's a fine little spaniel you have there, Citizen Boy!" he remarked.

"What do you call him?" The child inside the fence looked up with a pleased smile.

"His name is Moufflet. Isn't he a beauty? Don't you want to pet him?"

The little boy lifted the wriggling animal to the fence while Jean put out his hand and stroked the long, curly ears.

"Jean! Jean! lift me up! I want to see him too!" begged Yvonne who was so short that her head barely came to the top of the fence. Jean reached down, and with his strong arms swung her to a seat on his shoulder.

"Oh, you beautiful thing!" she exclaimed. "And what a pretty little boy, too! I like you, boy!" The little fellow laughed with pleasure.

"And I like you also!" he declared. "Don't you want some flowers? I gathered some for my mother this morning, but I think there are enough left to make you a nice bouquet." Dropping the dog, he ran hither and thither gathering from one bush and another, till he had collected quite a large ma.s.s of blossoms. These he handed to the little girl, saying:

"And won't you tell me your name?"

"I am Yvonne Marie Clouet," she answered, burying her face in the fragrant bunch, "and I thank you!"

Jean, however, was growing restless. This was all very pleasant, but it was not that for which he had stolen a holiday from the services of the Citizeness Clouet, risking thereby the prospect of certain punishment, and had hurried through two miles of hot streets to see. He leaned across the fence toward the boy, and spoke in a half-whisper:

"I say, Citizen Boy, do you happen to know whereabouts we can get a sight of the little 'Wolf-Cub'?" The child looked startled.

"I don't know what you mean!" he replied.

"Why, you must know!--the son of that monster, the Citizen King!" The little fellow drew back proudly. His blue eyes grew dark with anger, and he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"I am the Dauphin of France! And my father the King is _not_ a monster!

He is a good man!" Jean was so astonished that he let go his hold of Yvonne, who all but toppled from her perch on his shoulder.

"But--but--" he stammered, "you are not a bit like what they said! What does all this mean? I--I like you! I don't care if you _are_ the Dauphin! Say, will you forgive me, little Citizen Prince?" The generous heart of the royal child was as quick to forgive as it was to take offence, and he held out his hand with a charming smile. Jean took it, glanced furtively around, and shook it heartily.

"I hope no one sees me doing this!" he muttered. The Dauphin, now all restored to good humour, seated himself on an upturned box and nursed his knees with his clasped hands.

"Let us talk awhile!" he begged. "I do not see any children now, except my sister, and I'm often very lonely. Please tell me your name."

"I am called Jean Dominique Mettot," answered his new friend. "That is the name they gave me in the Foundling Hospital from which the Citizeness Clouet took me."

"Oh, did you come from the Foundling Hospital?" eagerly replied the Dauphin. "Why, I used to go there often with the Queen, my mother. We brought food and money for the sick children. I loved to go there! I never wanted to come away!"

"Did the Citizeness Queen really go there?" marvelled Jean. "Why, she can't be such a bad one, after all!" The Dauphin's face grew sad.