“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 never 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.”