I thought I could get along better without the experience and even the few pounds, than with him as an encumbrance; though I could not bring myself to the cruelty of telling him so.  For there is in me a fatal softness which no man can have and overbear others in this world.  It constrains me to make the other man’s cause my own, though he be at war with my own interests.

Therefore I was at the mercy of Skenedonk, also.  The Indian appeared in the doorway and watched me.  I knew he thought there was to be trouble with the gentleman from Washington, and I went to him to ease his mind.

Skenedonk had nothing to say, however, and made me a sign to follow him.  As we passed through the tap-room, General Jackson gave me another pleasant look.  He had resumed his conversation and his own ink-bottle as if he had never been interrupted.

The Indian led me upstairs to one of the chambers, and opened the door.

In the room was Louis Philippe, and when we were shut alone together, he embraced me and kissed me as I did not know men embraced and kissed.

“Do you know Skenedonk?” I exclaimed.

“If you mean the Indian who brought you at my order, he was my guide from Montreal.”

“But he was not with you at the potter’s camp.”

“Yes, he was in the hut, wrapped in his blanket, and after you drove the door in he heard all that was said.  Lazarre”—­Louis Philippe took my face in his hands—­“make a clean breast of it.”

We sat down, and I told him without being questioned what I was going to do.  He gravely considered.

“I saw you enter the house, and had a suspicion of your undertaking.  It is the worst venture you could possibly make at this time.  We will begin with my family.  Any belief in you into which I may have been betrayed is no guaranty of Monsieur’s belief.  You understand,” said Louis Philippe, “that Monsieur stands next to the throne if there is no dauphin, or an idiot dauphin?”

I said I understood.

“Monsieur is not a bad man.  But Bellenger, who took charge of the dauphin, has in some manner and for some reason, provided himself with a substitute, and he utterly denies you.  Further:  supposing that you are the heir of France, restored to your family and proclaimed—­of what use is it to present yourself before the French people now?  They are besotted with this Napoleon.  The Empire seems to them a far greater thing than any legitimate monarchy.  Of what use, do I say?  It would be a positive danger for you to appear in France at this time!  Napoleon has proscribed every Bourbon.  Any prince caught alive in France will be put to death.  Do you know what he did last year to the Duke d’Enghien?  He sent into Germany for the duke, who had never harmed him, never conspired against him—­had done nothing, in fact, except live an innocent life away from the seat of Napoleon’s power.  The duke was brought to Paris under guard and put in the dungeons of Vincennes.  He demanded to see Bonaparte.  Bonaparte would not see him.  He was tried by night, his grave being already dug in the castle ditch.  That lovely young fellow—­he was scarcely above thirty—­was taken out to the ditch and shot like a dog!”