her his and persuaded her
to try them; she found they suited her sight and felt a trifle
less unamiable towards him. The Italian, pursuing his advantage,
got into talk with her, and artfully turned the conversation upon
the vices of the rich. The old lady approved his sentiments, and
an exchange of petty confidences ensued. Tudesco knew a sovereign
remedy for catarrh, and this too was well received. He redoubled
his attentions, and the _concierge_, who saw him smiling to himself
on the doorstep, told Aunt Servien: "The man's in love with you."
Of course she declared: "At my time of life a woman doesn't want
lovers," but her vanity was tickled all the same. Monsieur Tudesco
got what he wanted--to have his glass filled to the brim every
lesson. Out of politeness they would even leave him the pint jug
only half empty, which he was indiscreet enough to drain dry.

One day he asked for a taste of cheese--"just enough to make
a mouse's dinner," was his expression. "Mice are like me, they
love the dark and a quiet life and books; and like me they live
on crumbs."

This pose of the wise man fallen on evil days made a bad impression,
and the old lady became silent and sombre as before.

When springtime came Monsieur Tudesco vanished.

V

The bookbinder, for all his scanty earnings, was resolved to
enter Jean at a school where the boy could enjoy a regular and
complete course of instruction. He selected a day-school not
far from the Luxembourg, because he could see the top branches
of an acacia overtopping the wall, and the house had a cheerful
look.

Jean, as a little new boy (he was now eleven), was some weeks
before he shook off the shyness with which his schoolfellows'
loud voices and rough ways and his masters' ponderous gravity
had at first overwhelmed him. Little by little he grew used to
the work, and learned some of the tricks by means of which
punishments were avoided; his schoolfellows found him so inoffensive
they left off stealing his cap and initiated him in the game of
marbles. But he had little love for school-life, and when five
o'clock came, prayers were over and his satchel strapped, it
was with unfeigned delight he dashed out into the street basking
in the golden rays of the setting sun. In the intoxication of
freedom, he danced and leapt, seeing everything, men and horses,
carriages and shops, in a charmed light, and out of sheer joy of
life mumbling at his Aunt Servien's hand and arm, as she