The cobbler Simon was fifty-seven years old, of more than medium height, powerfully built, with a swarthy skin and a shock of stiff black hair falling over his eyebrows. His features were heavy, and he wore large mustaches. His wife was about the same age, but very short and stout; she was dark and ill-favored, like her husband, and usually wore a cap with red ribbons, and a blue apron. This worthy pair were given absolute control over the Dauphin, the descendant of so many kings, torn from his royal mother’s arms to be delivered into such hands as these! The very refinement of cruelty could scarcely have conceived a greater infamy! The poor child, confused and bewildered by having been awakened so suddenly from a sound sleep, remained for hours sitting on a stool in the farthest corner of the room and weeping pitifully. Simon plied him with rude questions, plentifully sprinkled with curses and blasphemies, as he smoked his pipe, but only succeeded in extracting short answers from his victim. For the first two or three days the little Prince was in such despair at being parted from his mother that he could swallow nothing but a few mouthfuls of broth. Soon, however, he began to rebel inwardly; gleams of indignation shone through his tears, and his anger broke forth at last in passionate words: “I want to know,” he cried imperiously to the municipal officers who were visiting Simon, “what law gives you the right to take me from my mother and keep me shut up here? Show me this law! I will see it!” The officers were amazed at this child of nine years, who dared to question their power and address them in such a kingly tone. But their worthy comrade came to their aid. He harshly ordered his charge to be silent, saying: “Hold your tongue, Capet! you are only a chatterer.” The little prisoner’s sad and longing gaze was continually fixed upon the door, although he knew he could never pass its threshold without permission from his jailers. He often wept, but seemed at last to resign himself to his fate, and mutely obeyed the commands of his tormentors. He would not speak, however. “Oho, little Capet!” said the cobbler to him one day; “so you are dumb! Well, I am going to teach you to talk, to sing the ‘Carmagnole,’[17] and shout ‘Vive la Republique!’ Oh, yes, you are dumb, are you?” “If I said all I thought,” returned the poor child, with a touch of his old spirit, “you would call me mad. I am silent because I am afraid of saying too much.” “Ho! so Monsieur Capet has much to say!” shouted the cobbler with a malicious laugh. “That sounds very aristocratic, but it won’t do with me, do you hear? You are still young, and some allowance should be made for you on that account; but I am your master, and cannot allow such ignorance. I must teach you to understand progress and the new ideas. So, look here! I am going to give you a jews-harp. Your she-wolf of a mother and your dog of an aunt play the piano, you must learn the jews-harp.”