He drew his hand across his hot forehead.  Then pointing a finger to show he was addressing Jane: 

“At any rate, you write a good hand?”

Monsieur Servien answered for his son, saying it was legible.

“Legible!  Legible!” repeated the great man—­throwing his fat hands about.  “A copying clerk must write an even hand.  Young man, do you write an even hand?”

Jean said he did not know, his handwriting might have been spoilt, he had never thought very much about it.  His questioner frowned: 

“That’s very wrong,” he blustered; “and I dare swear you young fellows make a silly affectation of not writing decently....  I may have a bit of influence at the Ministry, but you mustn’t ask me to do impossibilities.”

The bookbinder shrunk back with a scared glance. He certainly did not look the man to ask impossibilities.

The other got up: 

“You will take lessons,” he said, turning to Jean, “in writing and ciphering.  You have eight months before you.  Eight months from now the Minister will hold an examination.  I will put your name down.  Do you set to work without losing a minute!”

So saying, he pulled out his watch, as though to see if his protege was actually going to waste a single minute before beginning his studies.  He directed Monsieur Servien to get to work without delay on the books he was giving him to bind, and walked out of the shop.  After the bookbinder had seen him to his carriage: 

“Jean, my boy,” said he, “that is Monsieur Bargemont; I have spoken to him about you and you have heard what he had to say; he is going to help you to get into the Treasury Office, where he holds a high post.  You understand what he told you about the examinations; you know more about such things, praise God! than I do.  I am only an ignoramus, my lad, but I am your father.  Now listen; I want to have a word of explanation with you, so that from this day on till I go to where your dear mother is we can look each other calmly in the face and understand one another at the first glance.  Your mother loved you right well, Jean.  There’s not a gold mine in the world could give a notion of the wealth of affection that woman possessed.  From the first moment you saw the light, she lived, so to say, more in you than in herself.  Her love was stronger than she could bear.  Well, well, she is dead.  It was nobody’s fault.”

The old man turned his eyes involuntarily towards the darkest corner of the shop, and Jean, looking in the same direction, caught sight of the sharp angles of the hand-press in the gloom.

Monsieur Servien went on: 

“On her death-bed your mother asked me to make an educated man of you, for well she knew that education is the key that opens every door.