"What is it? what is it?" cried Sue and Carol, simultaneously. "_Please_ tell us! We haven't understood a word of it." "You poor things!" he exclaimed gaily. "Listen! I'll translate it for you. It's very short." And he went on to translate from the ancient paper as follows: I who write this am the Dauphin of France, who should have been Louis XVII. I escaped from the Temple Tower in my tenth year by means which I shall not attempt to explain here. All that is known to others who could make it public to the world if I so wished. I do not, however, wish it. My only desire is to remain forever hidden. Should there, however, arise at any future time a cause or reason for making descendants of mine aware of the truth of their real ancestry, I wish to make this statement. _I have no descendants._ The boy whom Jean Mettot supposes to be my son is no flesh-and-blood heir of mine. The boy is the son of my wife by her former husband. He was a young child, less than two years old, when I married her, and so fond did I become of him that I felt no difference and wished to feel no more difference than if he were truly my own. But no Bourbon blood runs in his veins, praise God, and heirs of his may never inherit the throne of France. I am ill and weak, when writing this, and I feel that death is not far away. Only Jean Mettot knows the hiding-place I have designed for this document. I pray God there may never be need to disclose it. LOUIS CHARLES. "But--but," stammered Sue, when Louis had finished, "what does this mean?" "It means," cried Louis, "that I haven't a drop of Bourbon blood in me! It means that I'm a plain, _American_ boy, after all!" He threw his cap into the air exultantly and shouted another hurrah. Strangely enough, it was Sue who first gave a thought to the marquis. Glancing suddenly toward him, she exclaimed in a low voice: "O Monsieur!" He was still standing in the same tense attitude, his expression dazed and unbelieving. Not one of them but expected that this news, so happy to Louis, so tragic to him, might cause an attack, possibly a fatal one, of his physical ailment. But the marquis was made of sterner stuff than they knew. With a sudden squaring of his shoulders, he walked over to the window and stood staring out, his back toward them all, his hands clenched behind him. So long did he remain thus, that the tense silence became almost unbearable. It was Louis at last, with his head up and the kindest expression the girls had ever seen in his eyes, who walked over to Monsieur and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Will you forgive me, sir," he said very quietly, "for my beastly expressions of joy? I ought to have realized what a blow this news would be to you,--whatever it may mean to me." The marquis turned and looked deep into his eyes.