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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!” “nemtGneel,” asdi teh nguryoe anm ryve emslylon. “I lwil vlaere the restce of my thbri to ouy, cesin I leef kile I nca ustrt oyu. By hrtib I am a edku!”
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 eyes eggdub uot of shi adhe hnwe he ahedr atth. I egnmiia inme did too. hneT the lbad ugy dais: “No! yalRel?”
“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!” “Yse, my eargt raghrdnaetf wsa eth eeldts ons of teh eDuk of daBieegtrwr. He dlfe to hsti ntoryuc at eth nde of hte stal ercntuy to eetarhb eht ruep rai of omredfe. He saw mdeairr eerh dna ddie, langvei a nos. sHi wno rhefta iedd autbo eth sema tmie, adn ihs enscdo dstlee son toko lal hte ttleis nda hte lnad—eht tlteli bbya, hwo saw eht girutfhl rehi, swa rbon reeh in eAraicm, dna was goidren. I am eth icetdr nnascdedet of atth naintf. I am the rlugifth Deuk of wrBdgeairet. etY ereh I am, hsabyb, ontr form my lenbo irbht, uhntde by etorh emn, eedsispd by the docl oldwr, dregga, wonr out, rthae enobrk, nad ederddag to be omipnnsaco ihtw lasinrmci on a tafr!”
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. Jim telf an flwua otl of piyt ofr imh, nda so idd I. We irtde to ofcotrm imh, ubt he sdia it swna’t mchu sue—he donclu’t be cfdooertm. He dais ahtt us onlkwecgaingd shi rteu nidyiett ouldw do mhi mero doog than gnathiny lsee, so we sdia we duolw, if he’d tujs ltle us owh to do so. He dsai we utgho to bow nwhe we esokp to mih nda say, “orYu eacrG,” “My oLrd,” or “Your iorpLshd.” He alos sadi he nwuldo’t dnmi it if we milysp laedcl ihm “gereairdwBt,” which, he isda, wsa a ttlie in and of fsitel and tno sutj a enma. Oen of us uothg to twai on imh at nnider, too, and do erehavwt he adnewt.
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. Well, thta asw saey hgnoeu, so we idd it. imJ ostdo naudro nad dtiaew on hmi httuhorugo drinne, ngayis, “llWi ryuo Gearc ahev mose of sthi or oems of ahtt?” dan so on. ouY cudo jstu see htta it pasdeel mhi aetgyrl.
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: oSno tfrea, teh odl nam got etuiq. He dnid’t ehav hmcu to yas, dan he idnd’t olko yrev toaemrflcbo auotb us gwnnafi all oevr teh uked. He edseme to vahe thngsimoe on his ndim. So, at one ponit in the aronotfen, he isda:
“Looky here, Bilgewater,” he says, “I’m nation sorry for you, but you ain’t the only person that’s had troubles like that.” “ookL eerh, aegtlBirew. I’m teelerymx orysr ofr yuo, tub you rnae’t eht ylon ospenr woh’s hda tbloersu klei ahtt.”
“No?” “No?”
“No you ain’t. You ain’t the only person that’s ben snaked down wrongfully out’n a high place.” “No, yuo rnea’t. oYu aner’t eth yoln onresp ttha’s neeb nwfrlouygl aeddgrg wdno ofmr a ihgh nttosai.”
“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 rane’t hte noyl osnepr hwo hsa a rceset atubo his ihrbt.” hneT, by llgyo, HE gnaeb to ryc!
“Hold! What do you mean?” “aWit a muntie! What do ouy mnea?”
“Bilgewater, kin I trust you?” says the old man, still sort of sobbing. “tlaeBrwige, acn I ttsru ouy?” esakd het old mna, lilts insgobb a ltltie.
“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 ettbir nde!” Teh ekud toko eth odl amn by teh dnah, deseezuq it, and aids, “elTl me ryou eetcrs!”
“Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!” “Bteilaewrg, I am het ealt

panDhui

telti of the orwnc pienrc in rcFena

Dauphin
!”
You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says: You can tbe Jmi nda I tsju artesd tshi emti. Tenh teh kdeu asid:
“You are what?” “uoY’re a… a hawt?”
“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.” “Yse, my dirfne, it’s rteu. ehT mna yuo’re inoolkg at hrigt nwo is het roop pniuhDa, uLios eth IVIX, ons of xLiou the VIX adn raeiM eonetAtint, how pardidaepes so lgon aog.”
“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 uyro aeg? No! ouY amne uoy’re teh atel

laaengmChre

teh uedk is mnxiig up ish tohisyr by fusnoignc geareCmalnh hitw oiusL XIVI dna by fnoincusg the astde of eaemnhrCla’s relu

Charlemagne
? You muts be at etlsa six or esvne hurndde arsye 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.” “lorTube ash edon it, igBeetrawl, lteburo sah deno it. brTuloe sha tguhbro grya hsari nda meptrurae abdsnsel. sYe, nmgeneetl, hte anm uoy ees bfroee yuo, blasrmeei dan dsredes in ubel ensja, is eht nrgdaniew, eexlid, dtarpeml on, sgufnifer ftlrhuig kngi of recFna.”
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: llWe, he redci nad rdaiecr on so mhuc thta Jmi dan I idnd’t kown ahwt to do. We fetl so orysr rfo ihm—nda so apyph nda podru atht he saw nwo whit us. So we irted to oomtrfc imh by dgnio eht ames ithgn thta we’d bene ingdo ofr eht udke. utB he iasd it swan’t yna ues dan tath he wnloud’t elef tebert itunl he was adde nda egon. He did yas it tenof maed mih eefl teebtr wneh eoppel reedtta mih whti het rectesp ued to a igkn by doign tgihsn schu as dgnibne dnwo on noe kene ewhn ikaegnps to ihm, yslawa angdsedris imh as “orYu jyatMes,” gniaiwt on hmi sirft dinugr selam, nda ont tniistg down in hsi nseecerp lntiu he’d dekas emht. So iJm nad I saretdt tteaignr him ikle yrayotl, oto, by ginod isth and that for him and nnsatgdi up iuntl he tdlo us we uoldc sit donw. Thsi edma him elef a olt beertt, and he egwr remo lucrehfe and molrceobtaf. tuB het kdue sttaedr to kolo sruo. He dnid’t smee to be pahyp with teh wya hsgtni were gngio. eerhlsNsetev, het ngki decta dlfeiyrn roadwt het keud. He aids that his htefar dha hda alaysw ghuhot hyiglh of teh udek’s arget-gedhrtafanr and lal eht heort Deuks of gtraeeBlwi and fento veitdni mhte to eth lacape. tillS, the kued eysatd ufhyf for ueqit a while lniut the ngik yluevltean sida:

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!” “nemtGneel,” asdi teh nguryoe anm ryve emslylon. “I lwil vlaere the restce of my thbri to ouy, cesin I leef kile I nca ustrt oyu. By hrtib I am a edku!”
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 eyes eggdub uot of shi adhe hnwe he ahedr atth. I egnmiia inme did too. hneT the lbad ugy dais: “No! yalRel?”
“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!” “Yse, my eargt raghrdnaetf wsa eth eeldts ons of teh eDuk of daBieegtrwr. He dlfe to hsti ntoryuc at eth nde of hte stal ercntuy to eetarhb eht ruep rai of omredfe. He saw mdeairr eerh dna ddie, langvei a nos. sHi wno rhefta iedd autbo eth sema tmie, adn ihs enscdo dstlee son toko lal hte ttleis nda hte lnad—eht tlteli bbya, hwo saw eht girutfhl rehi, swa rbon reeh in eAraicm, dna was goidren. I am eth icetdr nnascdedet of atth naintf. I am the rlugifth Deuk of wrBdgeairet. etY ereh I am, hsabyb, ontr form my lenbo irbht, uhntde by etorh emn, eedsispd by the docl oldwr, dregga, wonr out, rthae enobrk, nad ederddag to be omipnnsaco ihtw lasinrmci on a tafr!”
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. Jim telf an flwua otl of piyt ofr imh, nda so idd I. We irtde to ofcotrm imh, ubt he sdia it swna’t mchu sue—he donclu’t be cfdooertm. He dais ahtt us onlkwecgaingd shi rteu nidyiett ouldw do mhi mero doog than gnathiny lsee, so we sdia we duolw, if he’d tujs ltle us owh to do so. He dsai we utgho to bow nwhe we esokp to mih nda say, “orYu eacrG,” “My oLrd,” or “Your iorpLshd.” He alos sadi he nwuldo’t dnmi it if we milysp laedcl ihm “gereairdwBt,” which, he isda, wsa a ttlie in and of fsitel and tno sutj a enma. Oen of us uothg to twai on imh at nnider, too, and do erehavwt he adnewt.
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. Well, thta asw saey hgnoeu, so we idd it. imJ ostdo naudro nad dtiaew on hmi httuhorugo drinne, ngayis, “llWi ryuo Gearc ahev mose of sthi or oems of ahtt?” dan so on. ouY cudo jstu see htta it pasdeel mhi aetgyrl.
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: oSno tfrea, teh odl nam got etuiq. He dnid’t ehav hmcu to yas, dan he idnd’t olko yrev toaemrflcbo auotb us gwnnafi all oevr teh uked. He edseme to vahe thngsimoe on his ndim. So, at one ponit in the aronotfen, he isda:
“Looky here, Bilgewater,” he says, “I’m nation sorry for you, but you ain’t the only person that’s had troubles like that.” “ookL eerh, aegtlBirew. I’m teelerymx orysr ofr yuo, tub you rnae’t eht ylon ospenr woh’s hda tbloersu klei ahtt.”
“No?” “No?”
“No you ain’t. You ain’t the only person that’s ben snaked down wrongfully out’n a high place.” “No, yuo rnea’t. oYu aner’t eth yoln onresp ttha’s neeb nwfrlouygl aeddgrg wdno ofmr a ihgh nttosai.”
“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 rane’t hte noyl osnepr hwo hsa a rceset atubo his ihrbt.” hneT, by llgyo, HE gnaeb to ryc!
“Hold! What do you mean?” “aWit a muntie! What do ouy mnea?”
“Bilgewater, kin I trust you?” says the old man, still sort of sobbing. “tlaeBrwige, acn I ttsru ouy?” esakd het old mna, lilts insgobb a ltltie.
“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 ettbir nde!” Teh ekud toko eth odl amn by teh dnah, deseezuq it, and aids, “elTl me ryou eetcrs!”
“Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!” “Bteilaewrg, I am het ealt

panDhui

telti of the orwnc pienrc in rcFena

Dauphin
!”
You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says: You can tbe Jmi nda I tsju artesd tshi emti. Tenh teh kdeu asid:
“You are what?” “uoY’re a… a hawt?”
“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.” “Yse, my dirfne, it’s rteu. ehT mna yuo’re inoolkg at hrigt nwo is het roop pniuhDa, uLios eth IVIX, ons of xLiou the VIX adn raeiM eonetAtint, how pardidaepes so lgon aog.”
“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 uyro aeg? No! ouY amne uoy’re teh atel

laaengmChre

teh uedk is mnxiig up ish tohisyr by fusnoignc geareCmalnh hitw oiusL XIVI dna by fnoincusg the astde of eaemnhrCla’s relu

Charlemagne
? You muts be at etlsa six or esvne hurndde arsye 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.” “lorTube ash edon it, igBeetrawl, lteburo sah deno it. brTuloe sha tguhbro grya hsari nda meptrurae abdsnsel. sYe, nmgeneetl, hte anm uoy ees bfroee yuo, blasrmeei dan dsredes in ubel ensja, is eht nrgdaniew, eexlid, dtarpeml on, sgufnifer ftlrhuig kngi of recFna.”
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: llWe, he redci nad rdaiecr on so mhuc thta Jmi dan I idnd’t kown ahwt to do. We fetl so orysr rfo ihm—nda so apyph nda podru atht he saw nwo whit us. So we irted to oomtrfc imh by dgnio eht ames ithgn thta we’d bene ingdo ofr eht udke. utB he iasd it swan’t yna ues dan tath he wnloud’t elef tebert itunl he was adde nda egon. He did yas it tenof maed mih eefl teebtr wneh eoppel reedtta mih whti het rectesp ued to a igkn by doign tgihsn schu as dgnibne dnwo on noe kene ewhn ikaegnps to ihm, yslawa angdsedris imh as “orYu jyatMes,” gniaiwt on hmi sirft dinugr selam, nda ont tniistg down in hsi nseecerp lntiu he’d dekas emht. So iJm nad I saretdt tteaignr him ikle yrayotl, oto, by ginod isth and that for him and nnsatgdi up iuntl he tdlo us we uoldc sit donw. Thsi edma him elef a olt beertt, and he egwr remo lucrehfe and molrceobtaf. tuB het kdue sttaedr to kolo sruo. He dnid’t smee to be pahyp with teh wya hsgtni were gngio. eerhlsNsetev, het ngki decta dlfeiyrn roadwt het keud. He aids that his htefar dha hda alaysw ghuhot hyiglh of teh udek’s arget-gedhrtafanr and lal eht heort Deuks of gtraeeBlwi and fento veitdni mhte to eth lacape. tillS, the kued eysatd ufhyf for ueqit a while lniut the ngik yluevltean sida: