Then he forgot his anxieties, forgot he was there to beg for employment, shook off the instinctive dread that had seized him on the threshold of the great silent house.  He forgot his fears and hopes—­hopes of being promoted usher!  He was absorbed by this cruel domestic drama revealed to him in the inscription.  A scion of one of the greatest families of France, a pupil of the Abbe Bordier, attacked by phthisis in the midst of his now profitless studies and leaving school, not to enjoy life and taste the glorious pleasures only those contemn who have drained them to the dregs, but to die at a southern town in the arms of his mother whose overwhelming, but still self-conscious grief was symbolized by this pompous memorial of her sorrow.  He could feel, he could see it all.  The three Latin words that represent the stricken mother saying:  “Children, praise ye the Lord who hath taken away my child,” astonished him by their austere piety, while at the same time he admired the aristocratic bearing that was preserved even in the presence of death.

He was still lost in these day-dreams when an old priest beckoned him to walk into an inner room.  The worthy man took the letter of recommendation which Jean handed him, set on his big nose a pair of spectacles with round glasses for all the world like the two wheels of a miniature silver chariot, and proceeded to read the letter, holding it out at the full stretch of his arm.  The windows giving on the garden stood open, and a tendril of wild vine hung down on to the desk at the foot of a crucifix of old ivory, while a light breeze set the papers on it fluttering like white wings.

The Abbe Bordier, his reading concluded, turned to the young man, showing a deeply lined countenance and a forehead beautifully polished by age.  He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.  Then the worn eyelids lifted slowly and discovered a pair of grey eyes of a shade that somehow reminded you of an autumn morning.  He lay back in his armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him, displaying his silver-buckled shoes and black stockings.

“It seems then, my dear boy,” he began, “you wish, so my venerable friend the Abbe Marguerite informs me, to devote yourself to teaching; and your idea would be to prepare for your degree while at the same time performing the duties of an assistant master to supervise the boys at their work.  It is a humble office; but it will depend entirely on yourself, my dear young friend, to dignify it by a heartfelt zeal and a determination to succeed.  I shall entrust the studies of the Remove to your care.  Our bursar will inform you of the conditions attaching to the post.”

Jean bowed and made to leave the room; but suddenly the Abbe Bordier beckoned him to stop and asked abruptly: 

“You understand the rules of verse?”

“Latin verse?” queried Jean.

“No, no!  French verse.  Now, would you rhyme trone with couronne?  The rhyme is not, it must be allowed, quite satisfactory to the ear, yet the usage of the great writers authorizes it.”