which brought the villagers eventually reached safety, and swarming to the temple. Be- the little boy grew up, and after trying several professions which made no call for him, finally adopted one that did. He was ordained a minister in the Wesleyan denomination, and lived and died a missionary. fore their advent the priest had hurried the culprit back to his mother, and made close prisoner of him. The ringing of the temple bell was explained away, and the fugitives remained undiscovered. They IX. Moti turned things over in his mind, and decided that he might go farther and fare worse than become a Christian. His motives were no better and no worse than those which had actuated many thousands of Outcastes. He was a Hindu cast out and oppressed by Hindus. He would try what Christianity could do to better his lot. Padre Armstrong was not a difficult man to find. Moti had before now stood in the crowd and listened to his preaching in the Chowk at A. The interview was short. The padre was under no illusions whatever regarding the motives which brought the vast majority of his converts to seek baptism. He knew his India too well for that. He used to say that he could almost count his genuine converts on both hands and both feet-men who in embracing Christianity had something to lose, and, from a worldly point of view, nothing to gain. The rest were either all of the Outcaste class or children whose parents and belongings had been swept away by plague. Of the former he would say that if Christianity didn't make them all good Christians, it at least made them better men and women ; and that they brought little Christians into the world. So Moti was accepted, and in time baptised. This short history of him ends here. I will not say that he lived happily ever afterwards, for even in his new church the stigma of outcastry was not wholly absent. And touching those early aspirations of his to become an Ascetic or Sadhu or Holy Man, there may have been something in them after all, for in course of years he became a pillar in the Wesleyan Mission, and, rising through the various grades of its ministry, himself became an ordained minister. OUR KING FIGARO. BY KENNETH MAONICHOL. MESSIEURS, said our raconteur, Réné Guizet, permit me to warn you in advance that this present tale is not an amusing story. It becomes a farce, certainly, but only as all life is farcical. Viewing this mad spectacle of life, one must become farceur, else lose hold on all philosophy. Why is it, one may ask, that those most unworthy are so often favoured of destiny, while, au contraire, they are abased whom it should be the especial desire of the "gods to protect? Now, by way of variation, consider the story of a life in which farce and tragedy are most strangely * compounded. The usual bock was set down before the little journalist of Le Grand Bavard,' and when he had refreshed himself he addressed our group, again gathered about the third table on the right in the Café Provençal. This, mes amis, is the life story of Figaro, King of France. You will, of course, quite easily perceive that Figaro is not the gentleman's family name, nor I was he ever King of France, except in the warped imaginations of other men sadly afflicted with the same madness that possessed him. His name, in fact, was M. Henri Mêrot. He was a barber, who kept a little shop at 22, rue de la Boule, He XIIIème arrondissement. was not a very good barber, and his clients were few. Nevertheless, one grants him two claims to distinction. He was a gentleman. He was also, without doubt, a descendant in direct line from Louis, le Bien-Aimé, although not with the authority of the Church. However, since no other claimant has ever been able to present so good a title, he had sufficient reason for believing that, should his blood ever receive rightful recognition, he was, in due succession, King of France. For the rest, although the little barber made no secret of his pretension, a lenient Government ably succeeded in ignoring him. was Believe me, messieurs, he was not, in effect, an unkingly figure, this Figaro, as the students of Montmartre had nicknamed him. He was not tall, but, being thin and well-proportioned, he had an air of distinguished dignity. Old age crept upon him gently. His high white forehead crowned with silver hair, brushed out as carefully as his proud moustache and neat impériale. His nose, messieurs, was very beautiful. were thin and shapely, given to kindly utterance, which was his natural manner of expression. Because the old gentle His lips Comtesse d'Angoulême, cling. ing proudly to their empty honour, recognised no flight of time since the Revolution. They looked forward confidently to a restoration of the ancient régime. The dream pleased them. Those to whom the dream was most real were least active in the world of politics. They were content to exist in a world of their own imagining, and that aristocratic world humbled itself before the little barber, who was their king. man had lived so long with ant. Those who met with the dreams partly because at times he starved himself-his face was marked by a kind of ascetic purity. Indeed, on more than one occasion M. Mêrot refused profitable employment by various artists of the quarter. His head would have made a splendid study for any refined drawing of a saint. That is not surprising. For sixty years, childishly idealistic, he had formed his character as though he were in verity a king. Nor were his ideas of kingliness such as might, with reason, be ascribed to men more practical. And did not M. Mêrot have constant proof of his own royalty? Yes, mes amis, for twenty-nine days at least in every month he was merely a barber somewhat unskilful at his trade, but each thirtieth evening for certain hours he was King of France. That was when he attended the salon of the royalists, who enjoyed the hospitality of the ancient Comtesse d'Angoulême at her magnificent apartments looking down on the Place de l'Etoile. There he accepted homage, as was his right, from the haute noblesse, men and women mostly somewhat faded, who met as equals because only the little barber was their superior, and addressed each other familiarly by the oldest and proudest names in France. It is true that in our French Republic titles have no legal recognition, but the social value of a noble name is still import A curious figure, this little king in his triumphant hour! He came clothed in dingy black faded to musty green; his boots disreputable, but polished brightly between innumerable cracks; his high hat of form which had already seen thirty years of service, worn as though it were in truth a crown. The soft light of candles dealt kindly with his poor attire. His frayed garments could not hide the king. He moved easily amid such rich surroundings as if no other environment had ever been known by him, as indeed he knew no other in his dreams. His white hands were kissed by withered lips, which, speaking, addressed him formally as Your Majesty. One believes that these meetings had no political aspect. They were social occasions only, when the king held his court, accepting the loyalty of his noble subjects without condescension. When the soirée was finished, finished, the king de scended to the pavements of certain bottles containing fluids modern Paris, where, were it of various colours supposed to raining, his worn boots drank be efficient in promoting the thirstily from every gutter be- growth of hair. Painted on tween the Place de l'Etoile and that window in flaking letters the back streets of Montmartre. was the announcement, "H. Mêrot, Coiffeur," sole advertisement of this business of one chair. The barber slept in one tiny windowless chamber on the top floor, where he also cooked his meals when possible. He panted painfully when ascending the four flights of stairs. Naturally the clientèle to be found in such a quarter lacked distinction: certain students and artists dwelling in the house who, in mere friendliness, were often shaved but did not pay; workmen who demanded M. Mêrot's services at longer intervals, and were less pleasing in their manners when they called. Why did they not assist him you will ask. Messieurs, occasionally your lack of understanding is as remarkable as your patience in listening to my tales. Is it that a king is a beggar, then? For the asking, one may readily believe, Henri Mêrot might have inhabited a palace, or at least a comfortable flat. His scissors, which he wielded as a sceptre, might as readily have been put away. At the very least, when he was not possessed of the three sous demanded by the Metro, an automobile would have been at his disposal could he have given his assent. But no! Could he accept in charity what was his by right? His pride was so much greater than his pressing need, and this attitude, once made the subject of a strict command, was respected by those who respected him. So much is idyllic, worthy of a king. O Consider, however, the reverse side of the picture. Number 22, rue de la Boule, a street which is little more than a foul passage, as a place of residence is undesirable. One gropes through a dark hallway behind a warped door gaining access to a darker flight of stairs. From the hallway one enters also the little shop. Displayed behind the dirty window were Messieurs, one considers that the the infrequent shearing of tousled heads and the scraping of dirty bearded chins was not altogether pleasurable for fastidious M. Mêrot. Therefore he did his work badly and as seldom as possible if he was to survive for the sake of his inheritance. He did not love that insulting name, Figaro, which the students affectionately fastened on their king. But because he was a gentleman and a dreamer with a soul above such things, it was yet possible for him to endure. Also his degradation was a little easier for him because of the presence in the house of La Belle Hélène. There, mes amis, was a young person who could make the darkest day seem bright with beauty. She inhabited a room on the second floor. She was tall, fair, crowned with an aureole of honey-coloured haira deep-bosomed goddess come to earth for the delight of men. Her voice was, in itself, a benediction; her smile an enchantment to haunt the memory. For the rest, her mother, conveniently forgotten, was woman of Normandy. Hélène was a model much in demand by artists of the quarter. Her conduct was ruled only by her emotions. On occasion her beautiful voice could utter surprising things. She was very kind to M. Mêrot. a How could he have commenced each weary day were it not with expectation of seeing her? And almost never was he disappointed. In his little shop the hot-water urn would scarcely begin to steam, preparation for his morning coffee, before there would be a glint of gold at the dark door in the hallway; a merry face smiling in on him; a sweet deep voice greeting him amiably "Bonjour, mon Roi!" his poverty, having cooked for herself an appetising stew, she would ascend to his squalid chamber carrying a steaming bowl of it, and would then sometimes stay to chat a while. An angel lost in the foul inferno of rue de la Boule ! Yes, messieurs, 80 Henri Mêrot regarded her. Mon Roi! She alone, with the exception of his friends, the aristocrats, ever addressed him by his rightful title. She alone, in all the quarter, seemed to believe in the barber's royalty, yet treated him as a neighbour and a friend. Although he knew nothing whatever about the girl, it is the truth that he almost worshipped her, having no one else in all the world whom he could love. Secretly, be it understood, she possessed his heart: a passion the purest and most innocent; something less than the love one gives a woman; something more than the love one gives a child. Knowing nothing at all about her life, and feeling that curiosity would be an offence unjustifiable, nevertheless he worried a great deal about the girl. Should it be raining but the "But your "Bonjour, mon enfant!" he merest drizzle : imperméable, my child-where is it? It rains. You must not fall ill. I cannot spare time from my business to care for you! Then she would laugh, and go out laughing into the rain, for being of healthy peasant stock a little water meant nothing to her. Sometimes, how. ever, his regard for her brought |