no resistance, but obeyed so gently, and with such a sad smile, that no one had the heart to punish him. At last the principal of the institution declined the responsibility of so determined a pupil. Should he send the little prince back to Dahomey? M. Bonfils dared not permit this, fearing thereby to lose the good graces of the king. In the midst of these perplexities Moronvol’s advertisement appeared, and the prince was at once dispatched to 23 Avenue Montaigne—“the most beautiful situation in Paris,”—where he was received, as you may well believe, with open arms. This heir of a far-off kingdom was a godsend to the academy. He was constantly on exhibition; M. Moronval showed him at theatres and concerts, and along the boulevards, reminding one of those perambulating advertisements that are to be seen in all large cities.
He appeared in society, such society at least as admitted M. Moronval, who entered a room with all the gravity of Fénélon conducting the Duke of Burgundy. The two were announced as “His Royal Highness the Prince of Dahomey, and M. Moronval, his tutor.”
For a month the newspapers were full of anecdotes of Mâdou; an attaché of a London paper was sent to interview him, and they had a long and serious talk as to the course the young prince should pursue when called to the throne of his ancestors. The English journal published an account of the curious dialogue, and the vague replies certainly left much to be desired.
At first all the expenses of the academy were discharged by this solitary pupil, Monsieur Bonfils paying the bill that was presented to him without a word of dispute. Mâdou’s education, however, made but little progress. He still continued among the A B C’s, and Madame Moronval’s charming method made no impression upon him. His defective pronunciation was still retained, and his half-childish way of speaking was not changed. But he was gay and happy. All the other children were compelled to yield to him a certain deference. At first this was a difficult matter, as his intense blackness seemed to indicate to these other children of the sun that he was a slave.
And how amiable the professors were to this bullet-headed boy, who, in spite of his natural amiability, so sturdily refused to profit by their instructions! Every one of the teachers had his own private idea of what could be done in the future under the patronage of this embryo king. It was the refrain of all their conversations. As soon as Mâdou was crowned, they would all go to Dahomey. Labassandre intended to develop the musical taste of Dahomey, and saw himself the director of a conservatory, and at the head of the Royal Chapel.
Madame Moronval meant to apply her method to class upon class of crisp black heads. But Dr. Hirsch saw innumerable beds in a hospital, upon the inmates of which he could experiment without fear of any interference from the police. The first few weeks, therefore, of his sojourn at Paris seemed to Mâdou very sweet. If only the sun would shine out brightly, if the fine rain would cease to fall, or the thick fog clear away; if, in short, the boy could once have been thoroughly warm, he would have been content; and if Kérika, with her gun and her bow, her arms covered with clanking bracelets, could occasionally have appeared in the Passage des Douze Maison, he would have been very happy.
But Destiny altered all this. M. Bonfils arrived suddenly one day, bringing most disastrous news of Dahomey. The king was dethroned, taken prisoner by the Ashantees, who meant to found a new dynasty. The royal troops and the regiment of Amazons had all been conquered and dispersed. Kérika alone was saved, and she dispatched M. Bonfils to Mâdou to tell him to remain in France, and to take good care of his Gri-gri, for it was written in the great book that if Mâdou did not lose that amulet, he would come into his kingdom. The poor little king was in great trouble. Moronval, who placed no faith in the gri-gri, presented his bill—and such a bill!—to M. Bonfils, who paid it, but informed the principal that in future, if he consented to keep Mâdou, he must not rely upon any present compensation, but upon the gratitude of the king as soon as the fortunes and chances of war should restore him to his throne. Would the principal oblige M. Bonfils by at once signifying his intentions? Moronval promptly and nobly said, “I will keep the child.” Observe that it was no longer “his Royal Highness.” And the boy at once became like all the other scholars, and was scolded and punished as they were—more, in fact, for the professors were out of temper with him, feeling apparently, that they had been deluded by false pretences. The child could understand little of this, and tried in vain all the gentle ways that had seemed to win so much affection before. It was worse still the next quarter, when Moronval, receiving no money, realized that Mâdou was a burden to him. He dismissed the servant, and installed Mâdou in his place, not without a scene with the young prince. The first time a broom was placed in his hands and its use explained to him, Mâdou obstinately refused. But M. Moronval had an irresistible argument ready, and after a heavy caning the boy gave up. Besides, he preferred to sweep rather than to learn to read. The prince, therefore, scrubbed and swept with singular energy, and the salon of the Moronvals was scrupulously clean; but Moronval’s heart was not softened. In vain did the little fellow work; in vain did he seek to obtain a kindly word from his master; in vain did he hover about him with all the touching humility of a submissive hound: he rarely obtained any other recompense than a blow.
The boy was in despair. The skies grew grayer and grayer, the rain seemed to fall more persistently, and the snow was colder than ever.
O Kérika! Aunt Kérika! so haughty and so tender, where are you? Come and see what they are doing with your little king! How he is treated, how scantily he is fed, how ragged are his clothes, and how cold he is! He has but one suit now, and that a livery—a red coat and striped vest! Now, when he goes out with his master, he does not walk at his side—he follows him.
Mâdou’s honesty and ingenuity had, however, so won the confidence of Madame Moronval, that she sent him to market. Behold, therefore, this last descendant of the powerful Tocodonon, the founder of the Dahomian dynasty, staggering daily from the market under the weight of a huge basket, half fed and half clothed, cold to the very heart; for nothing warms him now, neither violent exercise, nor blows, nor the shame of having become a servant; nor even his hatred of “the father with a stick,” as he called Moronval.
And yet that hatred was something prodigious; and Mâdou confided to Jack his projects of vengeance.
“When Mâdou goes home to Dahomey, he will write a little letter to the father with the stick; he will tell him to come to Dahomey, and he will cut off his head into the copper basin, and afterwards will cover a big drum with his skin, and I will then march against the Ashantees—Boum! boum! boum!”
Jack could just see in the shadow the gleam of the negro’s white eyes, and heard the raps upon the footboard of the bed, that imitated the drum, and was frightened. He fancied that he heard the whizzing of the sabres, and the heavy thud of the falling heads; he pulled the blanket over his head, and held his breath.
Mâdou, who was excited by his own story, wished to talk on, but he thought his solitary auditor asleep. But when Jack drew a long breath, Mâdou said gently, “Shall we talk some more, sir?”
“Yes,” answered Jack; “only don’t let us say any more about that drum, nor the copper basin.” The negro laughed silently. “Very well, sir; Mâdou won’t talk—you must talk now. What is your name?”
“Jack, with a k. Mamma thinks a great deal about that—”
“Is your mamma very rich?”
“Rich! I guess she is,” said Jack, by no means unwilling to dazzle Mâdou in his turn. “We have a carriage, a beautiful house on the boulevard, horses, servants, and all. And then you will see, when mamma comes here, how beautiful she is. Everybody in the street turns to look at her, she has such beautiful dresses and such jewels. We used to live at Tours; it was a pretty place. We walked in the Rue Royale, where we bought nice cakes, and where we met plenty of officers in uniform. The gentlemen were all good to me. I had Papa Leon, and Papa Charles—not real papas, you know, because my own father died
