"He is a king!" murmured he, in an accent of despair.

Then, before he had recovered from his sombre reverie all
the noise, all the splendor, had passed away. At the angle
of the street there remained nothing beneath the stranger
but a few hoarse, discordant voices, shouting at intervals,
"Vive le Roi!"

There remained likewise the six candles held by the
inhabitants of the hostelry des Medici; that is to say, two
for Cropole, two for Pittrino, and one for each scullion.
Cropole never ceased repeating, "How good-looking the king
is! How strongly he resembles his illustrious father!"

"A handsome likeness!" said Pittrino.

"And what a lofty carriage he has!" added Madame Cropole,
already in promiscuous commentary with her neighbors of both
sexes.

Cropole was feeding their gossip with his own personal
remarks, without observing that an old man on foot, but
leading a small Irish horse by the bridle, was endeavoring
to penetrate the crowd of men and women which blocked up the
entrance to the Medici. But at that moment the voice of the
stranger was heard from the window.

"Make way, monsieur l'hotelier, to the entrance of your
house!"