ere made by the rich and
powerful for the preservation of riches and power.

"The chiefs of kingdoms and of republics have said in their books that
the right of peoples is the right of war, and they have glorified
violence. And they render honors unto conquerors, and they raise in the
public squares statues to the victorious man and horse. But one has not
the right to kill; that is the reason why the just man will not draw from
the urn a number that will send him to the war. The right is not to
pamper the folly and crimes of a prince raised over a kingdom or over a
republic; and that is the reason why the just man will not pay taxes and
will not give money to the publicans. He will enjoy in peace the fruit of
his work, and he will make bread with the wheat that he has sown, and he
will eat the fruits of the trees that he has cut."

"Ah, Monsieur Choulette," said Prince Albertinelli, gravely, "you are
right to take interest in the state of our unfortunate fields, which
taxes exhaust. What fruit can be drawn from a soil taxed to thirty-three
per cent. of its net income? The master and the servants are the prey of
the publicans."

Dechartre and Madame Martin were struck by the unexpected sincerity of
his accent.

He added:

"I like the King. I am sure of my loyalty, but the misfortunes of the
peasants move me."

The truth was, he pursued with obstinacy a single aim: to reestablish the
domain of Casentino that his father, Prince Carlo, an officer of Victor
Emmanuel, had left devoured by usurers. His affected gentleness concealed
his stubbornness. He had only useful vices. It was to become a great
Tuscan landowner that he had dealt in pictures, sold the famous ceilings
of his palace, made love to rich old women, and, finally, sought the hand
of Miss Bell, whom he knew to be skilful at earning money and practised
in the art of housekeeping. He really liked peasants. The ardent praises
of Choulette, which he understood vaguely, awakened this affection in
him. He forgot himself enough to express his mind:

"In a country where master and servants form one family, the fate of the
one depends on that of the others. Taxes despoil us. How good are our
farmers! They are the best men in the world to till the soil."

Madame Martin confessed that she should not have believed it. The country
of Lombardy alone seemed to her to be well cultivated. Tuscany appeared a
beautiful, wild orchard.

The Prince replied, smilingly, that p