Free The Emperor of Paris by C. S. Richardson

said.
    Patience, my boy. As much as everyone loved the birds, some citizens loved the sound of their own voices. Idle talk flew through the streets like the birds themselves. With all this gossip the emperor knew his secret would be discovered. He would be laughed at and called a fool.
    The emperor needed to find a way to hide his secret. So one day he dressed in the finest clothes he owned. He polished his shoes and combed his hair and scrubbed his face. Then he called on the city’s greatest artist. I would like my portrait done, he said. Paint me as you see me. Do not make me taller or thinner or handsomer. I want only a true likeness, plain and simple.
    But was he handsome? Octavio said.
    The ladies would swoon wherever he walked, Monsieur said. Now where was I?
    The painting, Papa.
    Right. The artist was finished within the month, and the emperor was very pleased. Looking at his portrait was like looking in a mirror. He squinted his eyes, tilted his head, examined the details from this side and that. He began wondering about the man in front of him. What would this fellow look like with different clothes? Who would he be if he wore a beard? Or a hat? At last it came to him.
    Octavio sat up straight.
    The emperor imagined himself as someone else, Monsieur said.
    Octavio wrinkled his brow. Monsieur carried on.
    In his mind the emperor stopped slouching, he drew back his shoulders. His nose straightened, a confident smile appeared. He became a man who could walk the streets with his head held high, his face glowing in the sun. Here was a man that the birds of the city would not only speak to, but would also be perfectly happy to come and live with. Here was the portrait of a wise man.
    So, as someone else, the emperor went out to gather a few birds.
    At first he did not know which ones he should bring home. He knew nothing of their names or their origins or their habits. He only admired their variety, theirplumage, the ones he could hold in his hand. He pictured how they might look collected in his rooms. And that was how he chose them, one by one.
    For years the emperor assembled his birds. They took up every nook and corner. Their cages became his furniture: propping his windows open, levelling his crooked bed, acting as tables and chairs and shelves to hold even more cages. Some birds were no bigger than the eggs that had hatched them; with feathers so bright they hurt his eyes. Some were huge beasts, ugly and brown and dull. A few would not stop chattering, annoying and loud. There were scrawny birds and plump birds and clever birds and silly birds and birds that made no sound at all.
    Did they ever speak to the emperor, Papa?
    Not so fast, Monsieur answered.
    The city watched the emperor’s collection grow larger and more unwieldy. While they could see the emperor was wise, for who could not be with so many birds under his roof, they also knew his birds would grow restless, as birds eventually do. In time he would have to release them. But still the emperor brought home more and more birds. Finally his rooms could hold no more. And that was when it happened.
    Monsieur’s voice trailed off, an effect he had learned from his father.
    What
happened? Octavio said.
    The birds disappeared, Monsieur said. One day while the emperor was out, the birds released themselves. He returned home to find his rooms empty, every cage open, every perch vacant. No one had heard them leave. No one saw the sky darken with a cloud of wings.
    The emperor mourned the loss of his birds. Being surrounded by them had been his greatest pleasure and now that joy was gone. But worse still he knew that he would never be seen as wise. The citizens would learn that his birds had left and would begin their nosy questions: how could a man with so many birds not know how to keep them? The emperor would have no answers and they would march him out of the city.
    Did they march him away? Octavio asked.
    Not quite, Monsieur said. You see, the more the