False pretenses! Nothing less. He was
not a king at all. He was Bunker Bean, a stenographer, whose father
drove an express wagon, and whose grandmother had smoked a pipe. He had
never been anything more, nor ever would be. And here he
was ... pretending.
No wonder Julia had fussed! She had seen through him. How they would all
scorn him if they knew what that scoundrelly Balthasar knew. He'd made
money, but he had no right to it. He had made that under false
pretenses, too, believing money would come naturally to a king. Would
they find him out at once, or not until it was too late? He shudderingly
recalled a crisis in the ceremony of marriage where some one is invited
to make trouble, urged to come forward and say if there isn't some
reason why this man and this woman shouldn't be married at all. Could he
live through that? Suppose a policeman rushed in, crying, "I forbid the
banns! The man is an impostor!" He seemed to remember that banns were
often forbidden in novels. Then would he indeed be a thing for
contemptuous laughter.
Yet, in spite of this dismal foreboding, he was presently conscious of
an unusual sense of well-being. It had been growing since they stopped
for those eggs, in that fumed oak place. What about the Corsican? Better
have been him than no one! He would look at that tomb. Then he would
know. He was rather clinging to the idea of the Corsican. It gave him
courage.
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