One day in May, therefore, Paris, which, notwithstanding its innumerable occupations and its feverish excitements, has always one eye open to all that goes on,—Paris saw on its principal boulevards a singular procession. Four black boys walked by the side of a bier. Behind, a taller lad, a tone lighter in complexion, wearing a fez,—our friend Said,—carried on a velvet cushion an order or two, some royal insignia fantastic in character. Then came Moronval, with Jack and the other schoolboys. The professors followed with the habitués of the house, the literary men whom we met at the soiree. How shabby were these last! How many worn-out coats and worn-out hearts were there! How many disappointed hopes and unattainable ambitions! All these slowly marched on, embarrassed by the full light of day to which they were unaccustomed; and this melancholy escort precisely suited the little deposed king. Were not all of these persons pretendents, too, to some imaginary kingdom to which they would never succeed? Where but in Paris could such a funeral be seen? A king of Dahomey escorted to the grave by a procession of Bohemians! To increase the dreariness of the scene, a fine cold rain began to fall, as if fate pursued the little prince, who so hated cold weather, even to the very grave. Yes, to the grave; for when the coffin had been lowered, Moronval pronounced a discourse so insincere and hard that it would not have warmed you, my poor Mâdou! Moronval spoke of the virtues and estimable qualities of the defunct, of the model sovereign he would one day have made had he lived. To those who had been familiar with that pitiful little face, who had seen the child abased by servitude, Moronval’s discourse was at once heart-breaking and absurd. CHAPTER VIII. JACK’S DEPARTURE. The only sincere grief for the negro boy was felt by little Jack. The death of his comrade had impressed him to an extraordinary degree, and the lonely deathbed he had witnessed haunted him for days. Jack knew too that now he must bear alone all Moronval’s whims and caprices, for the other pupils all had some one who came occasionally to see them, and who would report any brutalities of which they were the victims. Jack’s mother never wrote to him nowadays, and no one at the Institute knew even where she was. Ah! had he but been able to ascertain, how quickly would the child have gone to her, and told her all his sorrows. Jack thought of all this as they returned from the cemetery. Labassandre and Dr. Hirsch were in front of him, talking to each other. “She is in Paris,” said Labassandre, “for I saw her yesterday.” Jack listened eagerly. “And was he with her?” She—he. These designations were certainly somewhat vague, and yet Jack knew of whom they were speaking. Could his mother be in Paris and yet not have hastened to him? All the way back to the Institute he was meditating his escape.