in Paris, might be expected to do, and they must
have acknowledged that I was innocent of something
Hke seven-eighths of the capital sins, but my aunt
had so mixed up the true with the false, and the
false with the probable, that my poor old father did
not doubt for an instant but that I was capable of
every crime, winding up—since I had not commenced
with it—by parricide. I am not overstating the
case, absurd as it may sound.
Unhappily for me, all the fathers in Auvergne were just then in a state of fright,—an epidemic of terror had seized them all. There are weak minded people in castles as well as in huts, and fools are to be found in aristocratic drawing-rooms as well as in the sixth floor garrets of city houses. About this time, it was said that many young children had disappeared, and this, coupled with the report that the Dauphin was suffering from some strange malady, led many of the good citizens of Paris to believe that the Prince had been ordered blood baths, and that all the young innocents who were lost had gone to fill his tub,—which caused a good many wooden-headed, wooden-shoed mothers to hide their offspring, as they did in the time of Herod.[1]
- ↑ The writer has made a mistake here. It was Louis XV, not the Dauphin, who was supposed to bathe in the blood of children. The rumour was current in 1750, or twenty-four years earlier than the date here given, and led to riots which were suppressed with some loss of life, and the ringleaders were hanged "on gibbets 40 feet high." See Dareste's History of France, Vol vi, p. 416,
