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sole crime of having been grandson of Louis XV.’
‘Monsieur,’ said the Bishop, ‘I like not this conjunction
of names.’
‘Cartouche? Louis XV.? To which of the two do you ob-
ject?’
A momentary silence ensued. The Bishop almost re-
gretted having come, and yet he felt vaguely and strangely
shaken.
The conventionary resumed:—
‘Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the
true. Christ loved them. He seized a rod and cleared out the
Temple. His scourge, full of lightnings, was a harsh speak-
er of truths. When he cried, ‘Sinite parvulos,’ he made no
distinction between the little children. It would not have
embarrassed him to bring together the Dauphin of Barab-
bas and the Dauphin of Herod. Innocence, Monsieur, is its
own crown. Innocence has no need to be a highness. It is as
august in rags as in fleurs de lys.’
‘That is true,’ said the Bishop in a low voice.
‘I persist,’ continued the conventionary G—— ‘You have
mentioned Louis XVII. to me. Let us come to an under-
standing. Shall we weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all
children, the lowly as well as the exalted? I agree to that. But
in that case, as I have told you, we must go back further than
‘93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII. I will weep
with you over the children of kings, provided that you will
weep with me over the children of the people.’
‘I weep for all,’ said the Bishop.
‘Equally!’ exclaimed conventionary G——; ‘and if the