His words opened superb vistas before the old priest’s eyes; he was enchanted, ravished, yet full of doubts and fears.  Alas!  Monsieur Schuver was quite helpless if it came to designing anything more ambitious than his paper roses.  Then Jean must needs take a look round in the shed where the properties were stored, and the two discussed together how the stage must be set and the side-scenes worked.  Jean took measurements, drew up a plan, worked out an estimate.  He manifested a passionate eagerness that was surprising, albeit the old priest took it all as a matter of course.  A batten would come here, a practicable door there.  The actor would enter there...

But the worthy priest checked him: 

“Say the reciter, my dear boy; actor is not a word for self-respecting people.”

Barring this trifling misunderstanding, they were in perfect accord.  The sun was setting by this time and the Abbe Bordier’s shadow, grotesquely elongated, danced up and down the sandy floor of the shed, while the old, broken voice declaimed tags of verse that echoed to the furthest recesses of the court.  But Jean Servien was smiling at the vision only his eyes could see of Gabrielle, the inspirer of all his enthusiasm.

XXI

It was nearly the end of the long evening preparation and absolute quiet reigned in the schoolroom.  The broad lamp-shades concentrated the light on the tangled heads of the boys, who were working at their lessons or sitting in a brown study with their noses on the desks.  The only sounds were the crackling of paper, the lads’ breathing and the scratch, scratch of steel pens.  The youngest there, his cheeks still browned by the sea-breezes, was dreaming over his half-finished exercise of a beach on the Normandy coast and the sand-castles he and his friends used to build, to see them swept away presently by the waves of the rising tide.

At the top of the great room, at the high desk where the Superintendent of Studies had solemnly installed him underneath the great ebony crucifix, Jean Servien, his head between his two hands, was reading a Latin poet.

He felt utterly sad and lonely; but he had not realized yet that his new life was an actual fact, and from moment to moment he expected the schoolroom would suddenly vanish and the desks with their litter of dictionaries and grammars and the young heads gilded by the lamp-light melt into thin air.

Suddenly a paper pellet, shot from the far end of the hall, struck him on the cheek.  He turned pale and cried in a voice shaking with anger: 

“Monsieur de Grizolles, leave the room!”

There was some whispering and stifled laughter, then peace was restored.  The scratching of pens began again, and exercises were passed surreptitiously from hand to hand for cribbing purposes.

He was an usher.

His father had come to this decision by the advice of Monsieur Marguerite, the vicaire of his parish and a friend of the Abbe Bordier.  The bookbinder, having a high respect for knowledge, entertained a correspondingly high idea of the status of all its ministers.  Assistant master struck him as an imposing title, and he was delighted to have his son connected with an aristocratic and religious foundation.