passed through! Whose blood has Oscar in his veins?
His conduct has been that of a blockhead; up to this moment when I
write to you, he has not said a word nor answered, even by a sign,
the questions my wife and I have put to him. Will he become an
idiot? or is he one already? Dear friend, why did you not instruct
him as to his behavior before you sent him to me? How many
misfortunes you would have spared me, had you brought him here
yourself as I begged you to do. If Estelle alarmed you, you might
have stayed at Moisselles. However, the thing is done, and there
is no use talking about it.

Adieu; I shall see you soon.

Your devoted servant and friend,

Moreau

At eight o'clock that evening, Madame Clapart, just returned from a walk
she had taken with her husband, was knitting winter socks for Oscar, by
the light of a single candle. Monsieur Clapart was expecting a friend
named Poiret, who often came in to play dominoes, for never did he allow
himself to spend an evening at a cafe. In spite of the prudent economy
to which his small means forced him, Clapart would not have answered for
his temperance amid a luxury of food and in presence of the usual guests
of a cafe whose inquisitive observation would have piqued him.

"I'm afraid Poiret came while we were out," said Clapart to his wife.

"Why, no, my friend; the portress would have told us so when we came
in," replied Madame Clapart.

"She may have forgotten it."

"What makes you think so?"

"It wouldn't be the first time she has forgotten things for us,--for God
knows how people without means are treated."

"Well," said the poor woman, to change the conversation and escape
Clapart's cavilling, "Oscar must be at Presles by this time. How he will
enjoy that fine house and the beautiful park."

"Oh! yes," snarled Clapart, "you expect fine things of him; but, mark my
words, there'll be squabbles wherever he goes."

"Will you never cease to find fault with that poor child?" said the
mother. "What has he done to you? If some day we should live at our
ease, we may owe it all to him; he has such a good heart--"

"Our bones will be jelly long before that fellow makes his way in the
world," cried Clapart. "You don't know your own child; he is conceited,
boastful, deceitful, lazy, incapable of--"

"Why don't you go to meet Poiret?" said the poor mother, struck to the
heart by the diatribe she had brought upon herself.

"A boy who has neve