CHAPTER XIX.



The jailer at that moment passed under our windows, and ordered us
to be silent.

What can he mean by the unfortunate duke of Normandy? thought I,
musing to myself. Ah! is not that the title said to be assumed by
the son of Louis XVI.? but that unhappy child is indisputably no
more. Then my neighbour must be one of those unlucky adventurers
who have undertaken to bring him to life again. Not a few had
already taken upon themselves to personate this Louis XVII., and
were proved to be impostors; how is my new acquaintance entitled to
greater credit for his pains?

Although I tried to give him the advantage of a doubt, I felt an
insurmountable incredulity upon the subject, which was not
subsequently removed. At the same time, I determined not to mortify
the unhappy man, whatever sort of absurdity he might please to
hazard before my face.

A few minutes afterwards he began again to sing, and we soon renewed
our conversation. In answer to my inquiry, "What is your real
name?" he replied, "I am no other than Louis XVII." And he then
launched into very severe invectives against his uncle, Louis
XVIII., the usurper of his just and natural rights.