Page:Fairy tales from Hans Christian Andersen (Walker).djvu/203

Rh to see it, she must see it! It had cost her many small sacrifices and much persuasiveness before she had attained her wish. She folded her thin hands and looked about her as reverently as if she were in a church. 'It was here,' she said, 'here,' and she approached the throne with its rich embroidered velvet hangings. 'There!' she said, 'there!' and she fell upon her knees and kissed the purple carpet; I believe she wept. 'It was not this very velvet,' said the attendant, a smile playing round his mouth. 'But it was here!' said the woman, 'it looked the same.' 'The same,' he answered, 'yet not the same; the windows were smashed to atoms, the doors torn off, and there was blood upon the floors!' 'But still you may say that my grandson died upon the throne of France. Died!' repeated the old woman. I don't think anything more was said; they left the room soon after. The twilight faded, and my light grew stronger upon the rich velvet on the throne of France. Who do you think the old woman was? I will tell you a story. It was evening on the most brilliant day of victory in the July revolution, when every house was a fortress, every window an embrasure. The populace stormed the Tuileries, even women and children fought among the combatants; they pressed through the apartments of the palace. A poor, half-grown lad in rags fought bravely among the other insurgents; he fell, fatally wounded by bayonet thrusts, and sank to the ground in the throne room itself, and his bleeding form was laid upon the throne, where his blood streamed over the imperial purple! What a picture that was! The noble room, the struggling groups, a torn banner upon the ground, the tricolour floating from the bayonets; and on the throne the poor dying boy with his pale transparent face and eyes turned toward heaven, while his limbs were already stiffening in death. His naked breast and torn clothing were half hidden by the purple velvet decked with the lilies of France. It had been prophesied at his cradle that 'he should die on the throne of France.' The mother's heart had dreamt of a new Napoleon. My beams