Your assistance, sire, and I shall owe you more than I owe my father,--my poor father, who bought at so dear a rate the ruin of our house! You may judge, sire, whether I am unhappy, whether I am in despair, for I accuse my own father!" And the blood mounted to the pale face of Charles II., who remained for an instant with his head between his hands, and as if blinded by that blood which appeared to revolt against the filial blasphemy.
The young king was not less affected than his elder brother; he threw himself about in his _fauteuil_, and could not find a single word of reply.
Charles II., to whom ten years in age gave a superior strength to master his emotions, recovered his speech the first.
"Sire," said he, "your reply?
I wait for it as a criminal waits for his sentence.

Must I die ?" "My brother," replied the French prince, "you ask of me for a million--me, who was never possessed of a quarter of that sum! I possess nothing.

I am no more king of France than you are king of England.

I am a name, a cipher dressed in _fleur-de-lised_ velvet,--that is all.

I am upon a visible throne; that is my only advantage over your majesty.