s!'"

"Doctor," exclaimed Labassindre, bringing his fist heavily down upon the
table, making it tremble and shake, "the tool does not degrade the man,
it ennobles him. The tool is the regenerator of mankind. Christ handled
a plane when he was ten years of age."

"That is indeed true," said Charlotte, who at once conjured up the
vision of her little Jack dressed for the procession of the Fete-Dieu as
the child Jesus, armed with a little plane.

"Don't be taken in by such balderdash, Madame," said the exasperated
doctor. "To make a workman of your son is to separate him from you
forever. If you were to send him to the other end of the world, he could
not be further from your mind, from your heart; for you would have, in
this case, means of drawing together again, whereas social distances are
irremediable. You will see. The day will come when you will be ashamed
of your child, when you will find his hands rough, his language coarse,
his sentiments totally different from yours. He will stand one day
before you, before his mother, as before a stranger of higher rank than
himself,--not only humbled, but degraded."

Jack, who had hitherto not uttered a word, but had listened attentively
from a corner near the sideboard, was suddenly alarmed at the idea of
any possible disaffection springing up between his mother and himself.

He advanced into the middle of the room, and steadying his voice:--

"I will not be a workman," he said in a determined manner.

"O Jack!" murmured Charlotte, faltering.

This time it was D'Argenton who spoke.

"Oh, really! you will not be a workman? Look at this fine gentleman who
will or who will not accept a thing that I have decided. You will not be
a workman, eh? But you are quite willing to be clothed, fed, and amused.
Well, I solemnly declare that I have had enough of you, you horrid
little parasite; and that if you do not choose to work, I for my part
refuse to be any longer your victim."

He stopped abruptly, and passing from his mad rage to the chilly manner
which was habitual to him:--

"Go up to your room," he said; "I will consider what remains to be
done."

"What remains to be done, my dear D'Argenton, I will soon tell you."

But Jack did not hear the end of Monsieur Rivals's phrase, D'Argenton
with a shove having thrust him out.

The noise of the discussion reached him in his room, like the various
parts in a great orchestra. He distinguished and recognized all the
voices,