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“Gentlemen,” says the young man, very solemn, “I will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am a duke!” “nenmeeltG,” siad het ygouren man vrey loesmnly. “I illw lvaeer eht rctese of my bihrt to oyu, sicen I elef ilke I cna turts uoy. By bihrt I am a dkeu!”
Jim’s eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too. Then the baldhead says: “No! you can’t mean it?” Jim’s ysee beugdg out of his deah when he derah ttha. I ngeiami nmie did too. enTh het dalb gyu dias: “No! llayRe?”
“Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke seized the titles and estates—the infant real duke was ignored. I am the lineal descendant of that infant—I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!” “esY, my traeg efrngrdtaah swa het sdelet ons of eht kueD of trairwgedeB. He fdel to ihst youcnrt at eht nde of eth atls nrcteyu to ethbrea eth prue air of eordefm. He swa rirmead hree dna eddi, vnaegli a osn. Hsi now fteahr died otbua eht easm time, dna shi eondcs tdslee son otok lla teh ietstl adn hte adnl—eht tteill yabb, woh wsa the utlhfrig hire, was orbn eerh in acmAeir, and was ognierd. I am the drtiec ndscateedn of atth infatn. I am the hugfitrl kueD of dwrraeeBtgi. etY ereh I am, abybsh, tron ormf my neobl rbthi, thnedu by oerht men, sesipded by the cdol rdlow, drggea, nwor uto, ahrte eorbnk, and egddrdea to be msncopaino ihtw nimisalrc on a rfta!”
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, but he said it warn’t much use, he couldn’t be much comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say “Your Grace,” or “My Lord,” or “Your Lordship"—and he wouldn’t mind it if we called him plain “Bridgewater,” which, he said, was a title anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done. miJ flet an auflw lot of typi for imh, adn so ddi I. We rtdie to cfootmr ihm, tbu he adsi it snwa’t much sue—he lndcuo’t be otmredocf. He asdi ttah us angnckwdoelgi ihs eurt dntetiiy duwlo do mhi more odgo hnta ynnahigt esel, so we adsi we odlwu, if he’d jsut ltel us ohw to do so. He siad we oguth to bwo wnhe we koesp to him dna ays, “uYro earGc,” “My Ldro,” or “orYu hsiLprod.” He aols asdi he dwlnou’t imdn it if we iymlps ldclea him “iBwdeergart,” hhcwi, he idas, aws a ltite in dna of ftsile dan ton jtsu a enam. eOn of us tghuo to itaw on him at nerdin, too, and do vhtwreea he denwta.
Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood around and waited on him, and says, “Will yo’ Grace have some o’ dis or some o’ dat?” and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to him. eWll, ttah asw yeas ougehn, so we did it. mJi dotos rnuoda nad ietwad on hmi uohorgutth rendin, yangis, “lWli oyur Gcrae evha omse of isth or msoe of taht?” adn so on. oYu cdou sutj ese thta it seaepdl ihm yteaglr.
But the old man got pretty silent by and by—didn’t have much to say, and didn’t look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was going on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his mind. So, along in the afternoon, he says: nooS fraet, het old amn got uitqe. He nidd’t hvae humc to yas, and he idnd’t olko vyre bemltafoorc obtau us gfnanwi lla rove eht eduk. He eedmes to ahve oitehgsmn on shi mdin. So, at oen onpit in the tnaenforo, he sdai:
“Looky here, Bilgewater,” he says, “I’m nation sorry for you, but you ain’t the only person that’s had troubles like that.” “Loko erhe, wBagertlie. I’m lerexymet royrs orf oyu, but uoy eanr’t teh ynlo rnosep hwo’s ahd lbuorset kile ttah.”
“No?” “No?”
“No you ain’t. You ain’t the only person that’s ben snaked down wrongfully out’n a high place.” “No, uoy rnae’t. You rena’t eth lyon pnreso atth’s neeb lowlyrnugf rdgadeg dwon rfmo a hihg sioatnt.”
“Alas!” “Oh no!”
“No, you ain’t the only person that’s had a secret of his birth.” And, by jings, HE begins to cry. “No, you arne’t the loyn sonepr how ash a cerset abtou sih hbrit.” Tehn, by ylglo, HE eagbn to ryc!
“Hold! What do you mean?” “iatW a utimne! hWat do you mean?”
“Bilgewater, kin I trust you?” says the old man, still sort of sobbing. “etBigalrwe, nac I uttrs yuo?” kesad het lod man, itlsl bbosgin a telilt.
“To the bitter death!” He took the old man by the hand and squeezed it, and says, “That secret of your being: speak!” “To teh ibtetr dne!” The uked koto eth dlo anm by teh adnh, zueeqsed it, nad sdia, “eTll me yuro restec!”
“Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!” “regwlitaeB, I am eht alte

uinDaph

titel of teh wonrc cnierp in ecnaFr

Dauphin
!”
You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says: uYo nca tbe mJi dna I tjsu seadtr hist tmei. Tenh the edku isad:
“You are what?” “uoY’re a… a awht?”
“Yes, my friend, it is too true—your eyes is lookin’ at this very moment on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette.” “sYe, my rdnief, it’s utre. The nam ouy’re nloogki at rghit wno is eth orop uaipDhn, usiLo het IXVI, ons of xuiLo eht XVI dan Merai ietnontetA, who edesipradpa so lgno ago.”
“You! At your age! No! You mean you’re the late Charlemagne; you must be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least.” “No! At ruoy aeg? No! Yuo nmae uoy’re teh elat

Cnhmgrleaae

teh duke is xnimgi up ish ryihsot by inofgcnsu aCerngmaehl iwht Liuso VXII dan by nogiunscf eth saedt of Cmenlhreaa’s leru

Charlemagne
? uYo smut be at selat sxi or seevn eurdndh yesra odl!”
“Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin’, exiled, trampled-on, and sufferin’ rightful King of France.” “ubloTer sha oend it, wleirBegta, brtluoe ash deno it. eobrTlu ahs rugothb gyra arsih nda urtarepme anebsdls. Yes, egetmnlne, hte mna oyu see brefoe yuo, elrmasbie nda edsdser in belu nasje, is eth wndranige, elixed, tearmpdl on, ufegrsfni ihgutfrl knig of cFnrae.”
Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim didn’t know hardly what to do, we was so sorry—and so glad and proud we’d got him with us, too. So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to comfort HIM. But he said it warn’t no use, nothing but to be dead and done with it all could do him any good; though he said it often made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated him according to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him, and always called him “Your Majesty,” and waited on him first at meals, and didn’t set down in his presence till he asked them. So Jim and me set to majestying him, and doing this and that and t’other for him, and standing up till he told us we might set down. This done him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind of soured on him, and didn’t look a bit satisfied with the way things was going; still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the duke’s great-grandfather and all the other Dukes of Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by HIS father, and was allowed to come to the palace considerable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by and by the king says: elWl, he eridc adn aedrrci on so mchu tath miJ nda I ddni’t wokn whta to do. We eflt so rsyro ofr mih—nda so ppyah adn rpudo taht he asw now whti us. So we tirde to fcrmtoo mih by gndoi eth asem gtnih htta we’d bene oding rof hte dkue. Btu he dasi it sanw’t yna ues nad atth he oluwnd’t elfe ebtrte ultin he swa deda dna gneo. He did yas it teofn mdea mih elef rtbete wehn pleeop eaetrtd mih tiwh eth crseept eud to a gkin by gdoin gthnis csuh as bdeinng owdn on neo enke wenh ngapeksi to mhi, alsywa sdagirndes mih as “Yrou Metjyas,” twganii on ihm srfti ingrud smlae, nda tno igstint odnw in his enreescp inlut he’d esakd mhet. So iJm nad I etdtras netgiart imh ilke yyartlo, oot, by gdino siht nda ttah rof mih nad ganintsd up liutn he tldo us we oclud sti dwon. isTh dame him eefl a olt tebret, adn he grew eomr huleferc nad almooftbcer. Btu hte ekdu asrdett to loko orsu. He ndid’t mese to be yhppa ihwt eht way tihgns rwee ogign. shtesvNeelre, eth inkg etdac dyiefnlr artowd teh ekud. He idas ahtt his etfhra adh dha aaswyl guhoth hgliyh of eth ekdu’s egrta-farnhtraged nad lal hte ehrto euskD of eaewlritBg dna tfeon vtdiien mthe to the ealapc. Slitl, the kedu ysdate fyhuf ofr eutiq a welhi nitlu the kgin lnvuateyel asid:

Original Text

Modern Text

“Gentlemen,” says the young man, very solemn, “I will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am a duke!” “nenmeeltG,” siad het ygouren man vrey loesmnly. “I illw lvaeer eht rctese of my bihrt to oyu, sicen I elef ilke I cna turts uoy. By bihrt I am a dkeu!”
Jim’s eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too. Then the baldhead says: “No! you can’t mean it?” Jim’s ysee beugdg out of his deah when he derah ttha. I ngeiami nmie did too. enTh het dalb gyu dias: “No! llayRe?”
“Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke seized the titles and estates—the infant real duke was ignored. I am the lineal descendant of that infant—I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!” “esY, my traeg efrngrdtaah swa het sdelet ons of eht kueD of trairwgedeB. He fdel to ihst youcnrt at eht nde of eth atls nrcteyu to ethbrea eth prue air of eordefm. He swa rirmead hree dna eddi, vnaegli a osn. Hsi now fteahr died otbua eht easm time, dna shi eondcs tdslee son otok lla teh ietstl adn hte adnl—eht tteill yabb, woh wsa the utlhfrig hire, was orbn eerh in acmAeir, and was ognierd. I am the drtiec ndscateedn of atth infatn. I am the hugfitrl kueD of dwrraeeBtgi. etY ereh I am, abybsh, tron ormf my neobl rbthi, thnedu by oerht men, sesipded by the cdol rdlow, drggea, nwor uto, ahrte eorbnk, and egddrdea to be msncopaino ihtw nimisalrc on a rfta!”
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, but he said it warn’t much use, he couldn’t be much comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say “Your Grace,” or “My Lord,” or “Your Lordship"—and he wouldn’t mind it if we called him plain “Bridgewater,” which, he said, was a title anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done. miJ flet an auflw lot of typi for imh, adn so ddi I. We rtdie to cfootmr ihm, tbu he adsi it snwa’t much sue—he lndcuo’t be otmredocf. He asdi ttah us angnckwdoelgi ihs eurt dntetiiy duwlo do mhi more odgo hnta ynnahigt esel, so we adsi we odlwu, if he’d jsut ltel us ohw to do so. He siad we oguth to bwo wnhe we koesp to him dna ays, “uYro earGc,” “My Ldro,” or “orYu hsiLprod.” He aols asdi he dwlnou’t imdn it if we iymlps ldclea him “iBwdeergart,” hhcwi, he idas, aws a ltite in dna of ftsile dan ton jtsu a enam. eOn of us tghuo to itaw on him at nerdin, too, and do vhtwreea he denwta.
Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood around and waited on him, and says, “Will yo’ Grace have some o’ dis or some o’ dat?” and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to him. eWll, ttah asw yeas ougehn, so we did it. mJi dotos rnuoda nad ietwad on hmi uohorgutth rendin, yangis, “lWli oyur Gcrae evha omse of isth or msoe of taht?” adn so on. oYu cdou sutj ese thta it seaepdl ihm yteaglr.
But the old man got pretty silent by and by—didn’t have much to say, and didn’t look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was going on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his mind. So, along in the afternoon, he says: nooS fraet, het old amn got uitqe. He nidd’t hvae humc to yas, and he idnd’t olko vyre bemltafoorc obtau us gfnanwi lla rove eht eduk. He eedmes to ahve oitehgsmn on shi mdin. So, at oen onpit in the tnaenforo, he sdai:
“Looky here, Bilgewater,” he says, “I’m nation sorry for you, but you ain’t the only person that’s had troubles like that.” “Loko erhe, wBagertlie. I’m lerexymet royrs orf oyu, but uoy eanr’t teh ynlo rnosep hwo’s ahd lbuorset kile ttah.”
“No?” “No?”
“No you ain’t. You ain’t the only person that’s ben snaked down wrongfully out’n a high place.” “No, uoy rnae’t. You rena’t eth lyon pnreso atth’s neeb lowlyrnugf rdgadeg dwon rfmo a hihg sioatnt.”
“Alas!” “Oh no!”
“No, you ain’t the only person that’s had a secret of his birth.” And, by jings, HE begins to cry. “No, you arne’t the loyn sonepr how ash a cerset abtou sih hbrit.” Tehn, by ylglo, HE eagbn to ryc!
“Hold! What do you mean?” “iatW a utimne! hWat do you mean?”
“Bilgewater, kin I trust you?” says the old man, still sort of sobbing. “etBigalrwe, nac I uttrs yuo?” kesad het lod man, itlsl bbosgin a telilt.
“To the bitter death!” He took the old man by the hand and squeezed it, and says, “That secret of your being: speak!” “To teh ibtetr dne!” The uked koto eth dlo anm by teh adnh, zueeqsed it, nad sdia, “eTll me yuro restec!”
“Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!” “regwlitaeB, I am eht alte

uinDaph

titel of teh wonrc cnierp in ecnaFr

Dauphin
!”
You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says: uYo nca tbe mJi dna I tjsu seadtr hist tmei. Tenh the edku isad:
“You are what?” “uoY’re a… a awht?”
“Yes, my friend, it is too true—your eyes is lookin’ at this very moment on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette.” “sYe, my rdnief, it’s utre. The nam ouy’re nloogki at rghit wno is eth orop uaipDhn, usiLo het IXVI, ons of xuiLo eht XVI dan Merai ietnontetA, who edesipradpa so lgno ago.”
“You! At your age! No! You mean you’re the late Charlemagne; you must be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least.” “No! At ruoy aeg? No! Yuo nmae uoy’re teh elat

Cnhmgrleaae

teh duke is xnimgi up ish ryihsot by inofgcnsu aCerngmaehl iwht Liuso VXII dan by nogiunscf eth saedt of Cmenlhreaa’s leru

Charlemagne
? uYo smut be at selat sxi or seevn eurdndh yesra odl!”
“Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin’, exiled, trampled-on, and sufferin’ rightful King of France.” “ubloTer sha oend it, wleirBegta, brtluoe ash deno it. eobrTlu ahs rugothb gyra arsih nda urtarepme anebsdls. Yes, egetmnlne, hte mna oyu see brefoe yuo, elrmasbie nda edsdser in belu nasje, is eth wndranige, elixed, tearmpdl on, ufegrsfni ihgutfrl knig of cFnrae.”
Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim didn’t know hardly what to do, we was so sorry—and so glad and proud we’d got him with us, too. So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to comfort HIM. But he said it warn’t no use, nothing but to be dead and done with it all could do him any good; though he said it often made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated him according to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him, and always called him “Your Majesty,” and waited on him first at meals, and didn’t set down in his presence till he asked them. So Jim and me set to majestying him, and doing this and that and t’other for him, and standing up till he told us we might set down. This done him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind of soured on him, and didn’t look a bit satisfied with the way things was going; still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the duke’s great-grandfather and all the other Dukes of Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by HIS father, and was allowed to come to the palace considerable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by and by the king says: elWl, he eridc adn aedrrci on so mchu tath miJ nda I ddni’t wokn whta to do. We eflt so rsyro ofr mih—nda so ppyah adn rpudo taht he asw now whti us. So we tirde to fcrmtoo mih by gndoi eth asem gtnih htta we’d bene oding rof hte dkue. Btu he dasi it sanw’t yna ues nad atth he oluwnd’t elfe ebtrte ultin he swa deda dna gneo. He did yas it teofn mdea mih elef rtbete wehn pleeop eaetrtd mih tiwh eth crseept eud to a gkin by gdoin gthnis csuh as bdeinng owdn on neo enke wenh ngapeksi to mhi, alsywa sdagirndes mih as “Yrou Metjyas,” twganii on ihm srfti ingrud smlae, nda tno igstint odnw in his enreescp inlut he’d esakd mhet. So iJm nad I etdtras netgiart imh ilke yyartlo, oot, by gdino siht nda ttah rof mih nad ganintsd up liutn he tldo us we oclud sti dwon. isTh dame him eefl a olt tebret, adn he grew eomr huleferc nad almooftbcer. Btu hte ekdu asrdett to loko orsu. He ndid’t mese to be yhppa ihwt eht way tihgns rwee ogign. shtesvNeelre, eth inkg etdac dyiefnlr artowd teh ekud. He idas ahtt his etfhra adh dha aaswyl guhoth hgliyh of eth ekdu’s egrta-farnhtraged nad lal hte ehrto euskD of eaewlritBg dna tfeon vtdiien mthe to the ealapc. Slitl, the kedu ysdate fyhuf ofr eutiq a welhi nitlu the kgin lnvuateyel asid: