The Prince was seldom gentle with me--sometimes almost brutal, yet he would scarcely let me out of his sight.

I had little intercourse then with the other servants, and less still when I was old enough to become a valet; and a valet I was to the Prince for twelve years." The Cure's hand clasped the arm of his chair nervously.

His lips moved, but he said nothing aloud, and he glanced quickly towards Madame Chalice, who sat moveless, her face flushed, her look fixed on Valmond.
So, he was the mere impostor after all--a valet! Fate had won the toss-up; not faith, or friendship, or any good thing.
"All these years," Valmond continued presently, his voice growing weaker, "I fed on such food as is not often within the reach of valets.
I knew as much of the Bonapartes, of Napoleonic history, as the Prince himself, so much so, that he often asked me of some date or fact of which he was not sure.

In time, I became almost like a private secretary to him.

I lived in a dream for years; for I had poetry, novels, paintings, music, at my hand all the time, and the Prince, at the end, changed greatly, was affectionate indeed, and said he would do good things for me.