in in the Army Clothing
Factory, like Bravida, the "brave commandant"; of a sprout, an Indian
fig-tree; and of a man who had missed going to Shanghai one who had been
there?

THE DEATH OF THE DAUPHIN

From 'Letters from My Windmill'

The little Dauphin is ill; the little Dauphin will die. In all the
churches of the kingdom the Holy Sacrament is laid ready day and night,
and tapers are burning, for the recovery of the royal child. The streets
of the old town are sad and silent; the bells ring no more; the
carriages are driven very slowly. The curious townspeople are gathered
just outside the palace, and are staring in through the grating of the
gates at the guards, with their golden helmets, who walk the court with
an important air. The entire castle is in a state of anxiety; the
chamberlains and major-domos go up and down the staircase, and run
through the marble halls. The galleries are filled with pages and
courtiers in silk clothing, who go from group to group collecting later
news in a low voice. On the large porches can be seen the ladies of
honor, bathed in tears, bowing their heads and wiping their eyes with
pretty embroidered handkerchiefs. In the orangery is a numerous assembly
of doctors in long robes: one can see them through the panes
gesticulating in their long sleeves, and shaking their wigs knowingly.
The little Dauphin's tutor and squire are waiting before the door,
anxious for the decision of the faculty. Scullions pass by without
saluting them. The squire swears like a pagan; the tutor recites verses
from Horace. And during this time down by the stables one can hear a
long plaintive neighing. It is the Dauphin's little sorrel pony, whom
the grooms are neglecting, and who calls sadly from his empty manger.
And the King--where is his Majesty the King? The King has shut himself
up in a room in a remote part of the castle. Their Majesties do not like
to be seen weeping. But the Queen--that is different. Seated by the
little prince's pillow, her beautiful face bathed in tears, she sobs
bitterly before every one, just as a peasant mother would.

In his lace crib is the little Dauphin, whiter than the cushions on
which he reposes, with closed eyelids. They think he is sleeping; but
no, the little Dauphin does not sleep. He turns toward his mother, and
seeing that she weeps, he says to her, "Madame my Queen, why do you
weep? Do you think truly that I am going to die?" The Queen wishes to
reply, bu