“I learned from my master’s wife that there was now no king. Charles X. had gone never to return, and the worst of all was, that they themselves were ruined. You observe, the downfall of the king was viewed selfishly, not as a national calamity, but simply as an event which blighted their own fortunes. That is the way of men. Secretly I rejoiced at the disaster, as it rendered my emancipation possible. Alas! my dear little Hares, Hares propose, and man disposes. Have no faith in the liberty born of the blood and agony of revolution. The change wrought by strife only embittered my lot. My master, who had never been taught any useful occupation, was reduced to living on his wits, which served him so badly, as to leave him often without bread. He was brought to such straits as we Hares are when the snow lies heavy on the ground. I have seen his poor {24} child weeping for the food that men often find so difficult to procure. Be thankful, my children, that you are not men; and that you can feed on the simple herbs as nature has provided them. Although suffering from hunger, I felt many a bitter pang for my little mistress. If the rich only knew the appetite of the poor, they would be afraid of being devoured. I more times than once saw my master eye me with ferocity. A famished man has no pity; I believe he would almost eat his own children. You will readily understand, therefore, that my life was in the greatest danger. May you ever be kept from the peril of becoming a stew.” “What is a stew?” inquired the little Hare in a loud voice. “A stew is a Hare cut up and cooked in a pan. A great man once said that our flesh is delicious, and our blood the sweetest of all animals; but he adds that we seem to be aware of our danger, as we sleep with our eyes open.” At this reply the audience became so quiet, that one might have heard the grass growing. “Nothing can ever make me believe,” cried the old Hare, much moved by the recollection of that incident in his life, “that Hares were created to be cooked, and that man cannot employ himself better than by eating animals in many respects superior to him. I owe my life to the misery that reduced me to skin and bone, and to the timely word of my mistress who pleaded for my life, that I might still display my accomplishments. ‘Ah!’ said my master, striking his forehead and looking dramatic, as Frenchmen always do in joy or sorrow, ‘I have an idea’—that was for him a sort of miracle. From that day I became a public character, and the saviour of the family.” [Illustration] {25} CHAPTER III. Public and political life.—His master becomes his charge.—Glory nothing but a wreath of smoke.