The sluggard kings in my history book were accompanied by mayors of the palace, who, at first mere officers charged with the interior government, became prime ministers and even masters of their masters. In school we heard eulogiums upon Pepin d’Heristal and Pepin the Short, who became the father of Charlemagne. Grandfather was not a very serious king and I quite expected father to take over the power. But why did he treat grandfather with so much respect, instead of dispossessing him? History had taught me to expect a different attitude. To the farmers, labourers and servant folk grandfather was just _Monsieur_, or _Monsieur Rambert_, and father was _Monsieur Michel_. It would never have entered any one’s head to call upon monsieur, to consult monsieur, to ask monsieur for an order. Monsieur would have been the first to protest. “What do you want of me? Leave me in peace. I have no time (I could never understand why he had no time). Go to Monsieur Michel.” Thus he himself set the example. I had concluded like every one else that he was good for nothing. Yet once in a while, no one knew why, he would protest against being left out in matters of the palace--I mean to say, of the house. But whenever a serious matter was in question, an important order to be given, one would hear on all sides the cry, “Where is Monsieur Michel? Call Monsieur Michel!” I have spoken of my father’s step. There was also his voice, sonorous, thrilling, cheery. He never raised it, he knew that there was no need. It opened doors, penetrated to the most distant rooms, and at the same time poured into the heart new strength, like a good glass of red wine--as folk declare who understand such things. When he came late to dinner because of the crowd of patients who hung upon him, there was no need to ring the bell,--from his ante-room he would proclaim, as it were an edict, “Dinner!” And the dispersed family would make haste to assemble. “What a voice!” grandfather would protest, starting as if in amazement.