Police Sergeant Hardy stood near the Boylston Street entrance to the Fens, his back toward the hundred and fifteen acres of park land which it was his duty to guard, his good-natured face overspread by a smile, as he watched a young lady taking a bicycle lesson in a secluded walk on his left.

The young lady approached the machine held by her instructor as if it were a horse, then springing nimbly on it, her features became rigid with anxiety as she found that her steed would neither go on nor stand still.

Her heroic grapplings and wrestlings with it, her wild gyrations to and fro in the walk, while her teacher dashed madly after her, were so ludicrous that the sergeant, although he was well used to such spectacles, was obliged to turn away to conceal the broad grin that overspread his countenance.

The next object of his attention was a Gordon setter who was gayly trotting into the park, but who, on catching the sergeant’s eye, at once changed his happy-go-lucky demeanor for a guilty shambling gait.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Ormistead’s dog?” said the sergeant in a stern voice, as he glanced at the animal’s collar. “Where’s your escort?”

The setter immediately prostrated himself on the ground, but his humble attitude was belied by the roguish don’t-care expression of the eyes he rolled up at the guardian of the law.

The sergeant waved his hand at him. “Get home with you. You know you can’t run loose here. What would the ducks and the cats say to you; or rather, what would you say to them?”

The dog was not ready to give in. He extended the tip of a very pink tongue, and meekly licked the tip of the sergeant’s shiny boot.

“No nonsense now,” said the man firmly. “You can’t humbug me, and you understand that as well as a Christian. Run home with you.”

The dog sprang up, resumed his careless air, and trotted calmly from the park by the roadway through which he had come.

The sergeant sauntered on. It was a charming September morning. He met a few pedestrians and many nurses and children. It was yet rather early in the day for the carriage people to be out.

A succession of angry childish shrieks made him suddenly wheel round, and look in the direction from which he had come. Two nurses and two children stood by the stone seats near the group of bronze figures erected to the memory of John Boyle O’Reilly.

The sergeant strolled slowly back to them. One of the nurses bent over a little girl who was sobbing violently, and was stamping her foot at a foreign-looking lad with a pale face, who stood at a little distance from her. His nurse, or attendant, for he was rather too old a child to come entirely under a nursery rÉgime, supported him by her presence, and would have taken his hand in hers if he had not drawn it from her.

“And sure you’ve hurt her this time with your murderin’ Frenchy temper,” exclaimed the little girl’s nurse, looking away from her sobbing charge at the silent boy. “It’s a batein’ you ought to have. Come now, tell us what you were after a-doing to her?”

“He took me by the arm and the leg, and he sweeped the ground with me,” cried the little girl peeping at him from between her fingers.

“Och, the young villain,” interrupted her nurse, “and did you?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, it is true; but afterwards embraced her.”

“By the soul of love, but you’re the queer boy,” responded the nurse warmly; “and it’s the likes of you makes the men that thinks they can drag us women round the earth by the hair of our heads, and then make it up with a—I’m sorry for ye, me dear—Bad luck to ye.”

“Hush now, Bridget,” interposed the second nurse, stepping nearer the boy. “Wait till you hear the rights of this. Tell us now, Master Eugene, what did Virgie do to you?”

The boy’s eyes flashed; but he said quietly enough, “Would you have me a talebearer? What would my grandfather say? Ask the child”—and he pointed to the still sobbing Virgie with as grand an air as if he were really the man that he felt himself to be.

“He h-h-hurt my pealings,” wailed Virgie dismally.

“Your pealings; it’s feelings you mean, rose of my heart,” said her nurse, drawing the child nearer to her. “Tell your good Bridget what you did to the naughty boy.”

The little girl, for some reason or other, was shy about confessing the provocation that she had given her playmate; but her nurse, whose curiosity had been aroused, was determined to extract a confession from her, and adroitly made use of the presence of the sergeant, who had by this time arrived on the scene.

“See, lovie dove,” she murmured in the child’s ear, “here’s a great big monster of a policeman, and he’s looking at ye. Tell him sharp.”

The little girl shuddered, hid her face in her nurse’s breast, and whispered, “I ’sulted his remperor.”

“And you served him right,” said Bridget. “The grasping old frog-eater. If I had a child that worshipped his bones, it’s shutting him up in prison I’d be after doing till he learned better sense,” and she made a vindictive gesture in Eugene’s direction.

Her nurse’s championship restored courage to the breast of the little girl; and slipping from her knee, she jumped nimbly to the stone seat beside them, and stretched out both her tiny hands toward the noble head carved above her.

“I ’sulted him,” she cried, tossing back her curls from her flushed rosy cheeks. “I made a face at him like this,” and she screwed up her little visage in a detestable grimace, “and I said, ‘Eugene, I hate your old remperor;’ then he sweeped me over the ground.”

A slight flush overspread the boy’s pale face, but he did not deny the accusation.

“Well, now, Virgie Manning,” said the boy’s nurse in a severe manner, “that was real mean in you. You’re only a little girl, but you ought to be ashamed of yourself to taunt a little boy that sets such store by his emperor. Look at here, officer,” and she appealed to the sergeant; “you’ve often seen us in these Fens. This little boy,” and she pointed to Eugene, “is French, and he’s got such a love for foreign things that you can’t get it out of him. He justs worships the emperor. I don’t rightly know which one it was”—

“His majesty, the great Napoleon, the greatest emperor the world has ever seen,” murmured the boy, lifting his cap with an indescribable mingling of reverence and grace.

“He hasn’t any brothers or sisters or father or mother,” continued the nurse, “and his grandfather’s nearly always away; and ever since he was a little fellow he tells me he’s been used to taking his meals with the picture of this emperor propped against the sugar-bowl; and he declares that this statoo, or figger, or whatever you call it, is like the photograph, and he just worships it; and if he sees any one leaning against this slab, or throwing stones near it, it just makes him crazy; and Virgie knows it, and she does it to tease him; and it ain’t his fault if he struck her or whatever he did,” and the girl threw a glance of defiance at the other nurse.

The sergeant smiled amiably. Among his multifarious duties he was quite well accustomed to being called on to act as arbiter in disputes between young nursery-maids or between their charges; and being somewhat of a philosopher, he was well adapted for the office.

The first thing he usually did was to give the parties engaged in controversy time to get cool while he went off on a side issue; so he said, in a deliberate fashion, “According to my humble opinion, if I was called upon suddenly for it, I should say that there isn’t much resemblance between John Boyle O’Reilly and the great Bonaparte. In the first place, O’Reilly never used a razor on his upper lip; and I guess the great Bonaparte did, judging by his pictures. How do you get over that, son?” and he directed his attention to the small boy in a paternal way.

Eugene looked up adoringly at the silent face above them, and spoke in a choking voice. “I have talked over the affair with Monsieur my grandfather. He agrees with me that there is a slight resemblance. Perhaps after the noble martyr went to St. Helena he was not allowed the use of a razor. Those abominable English”—

His utterance failed him to such a degree that the sergeant stared curiously at him. Was it possible that this small boy was shaken with emotion over the sufferings of the ambitious and despotic arbiter of men’s destinies who was so long since dead?

Yes, it was—the boy was in earnest.

“Do you believe in my emperor?” he asked, turning seriously to the sergeant.

“Well, I don’t know,” said the officer dryly. “I owe my allegiance, as I suppose you’d call it, to our President, to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and to the great American Union. However, I can say I believe in Napoleon to this extent—I believe he lived.”

“If you insult him,” said the boy gravely, “you are my enemy. I worship him. Long live the emperor—his memory will never die;” and his lips moved softly while he again lifted his little cap from his head.

The sergeant said nothing, but glanced at the two nurses, who had forgotten their dispute and were chatting amiably.

“Come, Master Eugene,” said his nurse, “we must be going.”

The sergeant stepped back; and the little girl, who had been jealously watching him while he talked to Eugene, took his place.

“I’m sorry I made naughty faces at your remperor,” she said poutingly. “Kiss me, Eugene.”

The boy did not kiss her, and he made no apologies for his own conduct. “I pardon you,” he said calmly; and he dropped the pink fingers that she extended to him. “Will you have the kindness to promenade with your nurse? I wish to talk to this gentleman—if I am permitted;” and he turned to the sergeant, who was furiously gnawing his mustache to keep from laughing at the boy’s grown-up air.

The two nurses and the little girl strolled on ahead, while the sergeant and the boy followed them.

Eugene had recovered his composure. “What admirable weather,” he said, dreamily watching the fleecy clouds floating across the blue sky. “I am glad that my grandfather says I am to stay out-of-doors all the time, and not go to school.”

“Doesn’t your grandfather believe in schools?” asked the sergeant.

“No, Mr. Officer, not in the kind you have here,” said the boy wearily. “This is what it was like—I had my breakfast, and went to a hot room where boys and girls sat in rows. I bent over books for an hour or two, then there was a play-time for a few minutes only, after it more study until lunch-time. A few hurried mouthfuls of food I got at home, then I was running back to the school. By half-past three I was too languid to play, and would try to get my lessons for the next day. My head would ache, and I would go to bed. I tell you,” and the boy confronted his companion in sudden passion, “your schools are infamous. They should be abolished. I wish I were an emperor, or your Mr. President. I would guillotine the school-teachers.”

“You’re an odd one,” muttered the sergeant to himself, as he cast a side glance at the slim, elegant figure of the boy beside him. “With your flashes of anger, and your quiet dull way like an old man, you’re like a queer combination lock. It isn’t every one that can pick you open.”

Aloud he said, “This is a free country, my boy; yet I fear you’ll get yourself into trouble some day if you keep up your little amusement of sweeping up the ground with girls, and if you propose to kill off our teachers. Why, they’re the staff of the nation.”

“What I say may sound harsh for the instant,” said the boy mildly, “but reflect for a little. Is it not better for a few to suffer than for many? Your schools must kill thousands of children. If a few teachers were sacrificed, many boys would be saved for military duty. Otherwise they will waste their strength in this imbecile of a life, or die, as I say.”

“How do you suppose the teachers would feel to be killed off?” asked the sergeant, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter.

Eugene made a compassionate gesture. “It would not be pleasant for them. Perhaps one could alter the punishment to banishment for life.”

“Why not allow them to stay at home, if they promise to stop teaching, or to use shorter hours?”

“Because a teacher will always teach, even as women and priests will always intrigue,” said Eugene firmly. “My grandfather says so.”

The sergeant turned his puzzled face up to the poplars overhead. “I’ve seen a good many boys and girls in my time, young Frenchman,” he observed slowly, “but I’m blest if I ever saw one with such twisted ideas as you’ve got. Why, you ought to be made over again. Is it your grandfather who has brought you up?”

“Yes, Mr. Officer.”

“Who is he, anyway?”

“He is called Monsieur le Comte EugÈne Claude Louis Hernando de Vargas, formerly seigneur of the chÂteau of ChÂtillon-sur-Loir in the department of Loir-et-Cher in France; and he is descended from the Spaniard Hernando de Vargas, who was ennobled and made a marshal of France by the great Napoleon.”

“Oh!” said the sergeant, “I see why you’re so stuffy; and where does your grandfather live in this democratic city of Boston?”

“Yonder,” said the boy, with a wave of his hand toward the south. “We have but small quarters. My grandfather is embarrassed in his affairs. I may tell you as an official, though I would never tell the schoolboys, that he was sentenced to banishment for conspiring against the abominable so-called republic of France.”

“Abominable and republic,” repeated the sergeant remonstratingly; “come, boy, that’s not grateful. Do you forget that a republican flag is waving over you at this present moment?”

“For you it is well,” said the boy earnestly. “You are true to the past. You defied England, who would have made slaves of you. Also, you have had no emperor.”

“Did you ever hear of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln?” asked the sergeant.

“The names of those gentlemen are quite unknown to me,” said Eugene politely.

“You don’t mean to say that you have never heard of that wonderful hatchet?”

“Whose hatchet, Mr. Officer?”

“George Washington’s.”

“A hatchet is a kind of sword, is it not?”

“Oh, no, no,—it is a chopper; we cut up wood and meat and anything with it. You’ve heard that story surely.”

“Possibly, sir,” said Eugene indifferently. “I do not remember that I have.”

“Well, I’m dumb,” said the sergeant. “I didn’t think there was a child in the length and breadth of America that hadn’t heard about that hatchet. Can you tell a lie, then, as you don’t know about George Washington?”

“In general,” said Eugene, in his grave, old-fashioned way, “I do not tell lies. At times, if I consider one better than the truth, I tell it without scruple.”

“You don’t think it’s wrong to lie?”

“No, sir; truth is often tiresome; there is tedium in it, my grandfather says. The great emperor lied.”

“I’ll bet anything on that,” said the sergeant grimly, “and he didn’t get any good by it either, nor will you, my boy; but of that more anon, as Shakespeare says. I’ll have to talk to you some time about those two gentlemen, as you call them, that you don’t know about. Would you like me to do so?”

“Yes, sir; I should be charmed.”

“I’ll back up Washington and Lincoln against all the emperors that ever lived,” said the sergeant. “There, now, don’t get huffy.”

“I am not vexed,” said Eugene quietly. “I am only about to ask you if you can tell me the name of the first king of France.”

The sergeant knitted his brows. “Louis, wasn’t it?”

“No, Mr. Officer, it was Clovis. Can you tell me why Saint Louis gained his name?”

“No,” said the sergeant gruffly; “I’m not up in French history.”

“Have you ever heard of the fight at the circus between Pepin the Little and the beasts?” asked Eugene softly and mischievously.

The sergeant laughed good-naturedly. “You’ve caught me, small boy. I don’t know any more of French history than you do of American. We’ll cry quits. What street did you say you lived on?”

“Lovejoy Street, number 29, suite 4—you will not proceed against my grandfather?”

“No, indeed; I just want to know where you live. I thought by the way you talk your grandfather must have a mansion on Commonwealth Avenue, at least.”

“No, he has not; but the little girl who insulted my emperor lives there.”

“Do you ever go to her house?”

“No,” said the boy carelessly. “Our nurses are friends, and we promenade together. I do not care for girls. I like men. May I count you as one of my friends, sir?” and stopping himself quickly by sticking the heels of his shoes in the ground, he made the sergeant a low bow.

“I’m sure I’ll be delighted,” said the sergeant, grinning at him.

“And may I request the honor of your name,” pursued the boy. “My grandfather will ask me”—

“Stephen Hardy, at your service, sir—plain Stephen Hardy, no marshals nor lords, not even a captain in my string—only plain Yankee sailors for grandfathers.”

“Ah, you belong to the bourgeoisie,” said Eugene, “or possibly the peuple. I should be more pleased if you had the particule before your name. De Hardy would be better. However, in this country one must let that pass. You are, nevertheless, not a peasant. One can see that by your bearing.”

“What’s your grandfather’s business?” asked the sergeant bluntly.

The boy blushed a furious crimson. “In this country he has no friends, no influence, his property was taken away—at present he assists a countryman in”—

“In teaching French?” asked the sergeant kindly.

“No; we speak but few words of French,” said the boy, and he looked as if another one of his fits of passion were about to come upon him. “We use your language in order that we may not be laughed at, as the boys laugh at me when I speak French.”

“How long have you been in this country?” asked the sergeant.

“Six months, Mr. Officer.”

“Then you’ve got a pretty remarkable hold of English for that time.”

“But I had an English nurse when I was a child, and an English tutor later on. It was the custom among the noblesse.”

“And what does your grandfather do?” asked the sergeant, coming back to his original question with true Yankee pertinacity.

“Pardon me, sir—I will tell you another day,” said the boy irritably. “The words stick in my throat. I have the honor to wish you good-morning;” and with another one of his sweeping bows, he swiftly and gracefully left the sergeant, and hurried after the two nurses and the little girl, who were making their way toward the wide expanse of meadows and shrub-planted slopes at the farther end of the Fens.

The sergeant stared after Eugene, and talked aloud to himself, as he had a habit of doing. “I don’t rightly make out that lad yet. We haven’t got any like him in this country. Haughty isn’t the word for him, and selfish doesn’t come anywhere near his looking out for number one; yet there’s something diverting about the little shaver, in spite of it all. He’s old-fashioned, like a child that’s been brought up with elderly people. I’ll look out for him. He’ll be coming here again,” and the sergeant smiled to himself as he went on his rounds through the park.