The king drew back as if a viper had sprung out from the iron he was filing, when the workman who had entered his presence so strangely made this direct appeal. Anger, astonishment, and something like consternation, rose to his face. Perhaps a King of France had never been addressed in such language before by a man of the people. The fact seemed incredible, even to the kindest and least exacting monarch of his race. “Who is it that dares use words like these to the king?” he said, at length, drawing his heavy figure up with dignity. “One who loves his king better than anything on earth, save France,” was the reply given firmly, but with profound respect. “Our grandfather used to say that the king _was_ France,” answered Louis, so impressed by the earnestness of the man that he forgot, for the moment, his low origin. “A good king, who loves his people as fathers love their children, might say this, and ask God’s blessing upon it. Ah, sire! it is in this spirit the people would recognize their sovereign: let him represent France in his own person; let him open his heart to their love, his mind to their great needs, his hand to help them; and no monarch ever lived who would be worshiped like Louis the Sixteenth. Oh! think of this when the proud men who surround you seek to crowd back the people from your presence.” The locksmith fell upon his knees as he spoke, and clasping his hard hands, held them up, quivering with emotion; for, brave as he was, this interview with the king, face to face, shook his stout frame from head to foot. Louis stood up proudly above him—for that moment the man was striving nobly against all the traditions and prejudices of the monarch. He was angry that any human being should dare to address him with the manner and words used by this workman, whom he now thought had gained access to his presence by a strategem. But the humble position and absolute bravery of the man awoke more generous feelings in the really good heart of the monarch. After the first rush of angry surprise, he rested one hand on the work-bench, and said almost smiling, “Stand upon your feet, my good friend, and for once let me hear from my people directly through one of their number. If you are, indeed, what your appearance indicates, a worker in iron, and nothing more, even though your craft has been used as a device, I will forgive it. Speak the truth, and that fearlessly, as if this were your work-shop, and not mine.” This speech, so different to what the man expected, took all his presence of mind away. Anger he could have borne; danger he was prepared for; but this generous composure took him unawares. He began to tremble with a rush of strong emotions; once or twice the rough hand was drawn across his eyes. When he did speak, his voice was low and broken. “My king, I thank you.” Louis smiled. He liked the generous homage betrayed in this rude emotion, better than the position this man had just left at his feet.