“Father!” Eugène burst forth, unable to withhold his tidings. “Father, the king is dead! The wicked rebels in Paris have slain him, slain him on the scaffold. Think of that! The king, the Lord’s anointed, Louis of France!”
A flush overspread the old man’s face, a tremor passed through his frame. Had he been able, he would have sprung from his seat, but he could not; one of his lower limbs was paralysed. So he lifted up his white and trembling hands to heaven, and said with deep feeling, — “God is just. His holy will be done.”
Eugène was amazed. This way of taking a hideous crime, a terrible calamity, seemed to him incomprehensible. But then, as he reminded himself, his father was not quite like other people. However, he could not help saying, — “I think it looks much more like the devil’s will, my father.”
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