“Unfortunate boy!”

“Well, father,” said Marshal Simon, with profound bitterness; “it is at the moment when my daughters and my adopted son require all my solicitude, that I am perhaps on the eve of quitting them.”

“Of quitting them?”

“Yes, to fulfil a still more sacred duty than that imposed by friendship or family,” said the marshal, in so grave and solemn a tone, that his father exclaimed, with deep emotion:  “What can this duty be?”

“Father,” said the marshal, after remaining a moment in thoughtful silence, “who made me what I am?  Who gave me the ducal title, and the marshal’s baton?”

“Napoleon.”

“For you, the stern republican, I know that he lost all his value, when from the first citizen of a Republic he became an emperor.

“I cursed his weakness,” said Father Simon, sadly; “the demi-god sank into a man.”

“But for me, father—­for me, the soldier, who have always fought beside him, or under his eye—­for me, whom he raised from the lowest rank in the army to the highest—­for me, whom he loaded with benefits and marks of affection—­for me, he was more than a hero, he was a friend—­and there was as much gratitude as admiration in my idolatry for him.  When he was exiled, I would fain have shared his exile; they refused me that favor; then I conspired, then I drew my sword against those who had robbed his son of the crown which France had given him.”

“And, in your position, you did well, Pierre; without sharing your admiration, I understood your gratitude.  The projects of exile, the conspiracies—­I approved them all—­you know it.”

“Well, then, that disinherited child, in whose name I conspired seventeen years ago, is now of an age to wield his father’s sword.”

“Napoleon II!” exclaimed the old man, looking at his son with surprise and extreme anxiety; “the king of Rome!”

“King? no; he is no longer king.  Napoleon? no; he is no longer Napoleon.  They have given him some Austrian name, because the other frightened them.  Everything frightens them.  Do you know what they are doing with the son of the Emperor?” resumed the marshal, with painful excitement.  “They are torturing him—­killing him by inches!”

“Who told you this?”

“Somebody who knows, whose words are but too true.  Yes; the son of the Emperor struggles with all his strength against a premature death.  With his eyes turned towards France, he waits—­he waits—­and no one comes—­no one—­out of all the men that his father made as great as they once were little, not one thinks of that crowned child, whom they are stifling, till he dies.”

“But you think of him?”

“Yes; but I had first to learn—­oh! there is no doubt of it, for I have not derived all my information from the same source—­I had first to learn the cruel fate of this youth, to whom I also swore allegiance; for one day, as I have told you, the Emperor, proud and loving father as he was, showed him to me in his cradle, and said:  ’My old friend, you will be to the son what you have been to the father; who loves us, loves our France.’”