“Colonel, I am like the gamin of Paris of Monsieur Vanderburch—I should like to embrace you.” “Embrace my secretary; that will give more pleasure to both of you.” I looked at Marie and she blushed as red as a cherry. “Mademoiselle!” I said, imploringly. She held up her cheeks to me. I took her hands in mine, and looked at her intently. “Has Mademoiselle,” I asked the Colonel, “a page in your memoirs?” “The last—a white page. But Marie has something to tell me. What is it, my child?” “That supper is ready, grandpapa.” “You hear. Have you an appetite?” “Unfortunately, I have just dined.” “I should have liked to clink glasses with you.” “Will you allow me to breakfast with you to-morrow, instead? You see, I am taking a liberty with you already. Mademoiselle can give me the memoirs this evening. I will read them to-night, and return them to-morrow.” “What! read them to-night? How many pages are there, Marie?” “Seven or eight hundred, grandfather,” replied the young girl. “Seven or eight hundred pages! If you will permit me, I will copy them.” Well, the Colonel allowed me to copy from his manuscript all that had reference to the arrest of the King at Varennes; and when he died, left me sole possessor of his memoirs. Colonel Réné Besson has been gathered to his fathers three months since, at the good old age of eighty-seven. He died, on a beautiful sunlit afternoon, when the mellow tints of autumn were melting into the snowy wreaths of winter. Peace be with him. Eight days after his death, I received the manuscript, with a letter from Marie, who has become one of the most charming girls I ever met with. The manuscript I now publish, is that of Colonel Réné de Besson; and I give it the title that was chosen by him. (Signed) ALEXANDRE DUMAS. A MAN OF THE PEOPLE. (RENE BESSON.) CHAPTER I. CONCERNING HIS PARENTAGE AND EARLY YOUTH. I was born in the village of Islettes, on the banks of a little river called the Biesme, in the Forest of Argonne, situated between St. Menehould and Clermont, on the 14th of July, in the year 1775. I never had the happiness to experience a mother’s love; she survived but a few days after my birth. My father, who was a poor carpenter, out-stayed her loss but five years. At five years of age, therefore, I was an orphan, without a friend in the world. I am wrong and ungrateful to say that. I had one—my uncle, my mother’s brother, who had the post of keeper in the Forest of Argonne. His wife, on my mother’s death, supplied her place; and he, on the death of my father, found me bread. My father died so poor, that all had to be sold to pay his little debts, with the exception of his box of carpenter’s tools, which had been taken to Father Descharmes (that was my uncle’s name), and placed out of sight in a little room belonging to me.