r won a prize at school!" continued Clapart.

To bourgeois eyes, the obtaining of school prizes means the certainty of
a fine future for the fortunate child.

"Did you win any?" asked his wife. "Oscar stood second in philosophy."

This remark imposed silence for a moment on Clapart; but presently he
began again.

"Besides, Madame Moreau hates him like poison, you know why. She'll try
to set her husband against him. Oscar to step into his shoes as steward
of Presles! Why he'd have to learn agriculture, and know how to survey."

"He can learn."

"He--that pussy cat! I'll bet that if he does get a place down there,
it won't be a week before he does some doltish thing which will make the
count dismiss him."

"Good God! how can you be so bitter against a poor child who is full of
good qualities, sweet-tempered as an angel, incapable of doing harm to
any one, no matter who."

Just then the cracking of a postilion's whip and the noise of a carriage
stopping before the house was heard, this arrival having apparently put
the whole street into a commotion. Clapart, who heard the opening of
many windows, looked out himself to see what was happening.

"They have sent Oscar back to you in a post-chaise," he cried, in a tone
of satisfaction, though in truth he felt inwardly uneasy.

"Good heavens! what can have happened to him?" cried the poor mother,
trembling like a leaf shaken by the autumn wind.

Brochon here came up, followed by Oscar and Poiret.

"What has happened?" repeated the mother, addressing the stable-man.

"I don't know, but Monsieur Moreau is no longer steward of Presles, and
they say your son has caused it. His Excellency ordered that he should
be sent home to you. Here's a letter from poor Monsieur Moreau, madame,
which will tell you all. You never saw a man so changed in a single
day."

"Clapart, two glasses of wine for the postilion and for monsieur!" cried
the mother, flinging herself into a chair that she might read the fatal
letter. "Oscar," she said, staggering towards her bed, "do you want to
kill your mother? After all the cautions I gave you this morning--"

She did not end her sentence, for she fainted from distress of mind.
When she came to herself she heard her husband saying to Oscar, as he
shook him by the arm:--

"Will you answer me?"

"Go to bed, monsieur," she said to her son. "Let him alone, Monsieur
Clapart. Don't drive him out of his senses; he is frightfully changed."

Osca