“Very.”

“Etienne’s letter says he is twenty and a Savoyard.  He speaks like a Parisian.”

“Very likely he is seminary bred,” put in the Swiss.

“Whatever he is, I like his looks,” said our Superior.  This good man liked every one.  His was the placid, easy Alsatian nature, prone to find goodness in all things—­even crabbed Abonus.  The Director, or, as he was known, Brother Elysee, was a stout, round little man, with a fine face and imperturbable good spirits.  He was adored by all his subordinates.  But I fancy he did not advance in favor at Paris very rapidly.

I liked Edouard from the first.  The day after he came we were together much, and, when we parted after vespers, I was conscious of a vast respect for this new-comer.  He was bright, ready spoken, and almost a man of the world.  Compared with my dull career, his short life had been one of positive gayety.  He had seen Frederic le Maitre at the Comedie Francaise.  He had been at Court and spoken with the Prince Imperial.  He was on terms of intimacy with Monsignori, and had been a protege of the sainted Darboy.  It was a rare pleasure to hear him talk of these things.

Before this, the ceaseless shifting of brothers from one house to another had been indifferent to me.  For the hundreds of strangers who came and went in the Paris house on Oudinot Street I cared absolutely nothing.  I did not suffer their entrance nor their exit to excite me.  This was so much the case that they called me a machine.  But with Edouard this was different.  I grew to love the boy from the first evening, when, as he left my room, I caught myself saying, “I shall be sorry when he goes.”  He seemed to be fond of me, too.  For that matter most of the brothers petted him, Elysee especially.  But I was flattered that he chose me as his particular friend.  For the first time my heart had opened.

We were alone one evening after the holidays.  It was cold without, but in my room it was warm and bright.  The fire crackled merrily, and the candles gave out a mellow and pleasant light.  The Director had gone up to Paris, and his mantle had fallen on me.  Edouard sat with his feet stretched to the fender, his curly head buried in the great curved back of my invalid chair, the red fire-light reflected on his childish features.  I took pleasure in looking at him.  He looked at the coals and knit his brows as if in a puzzle.  I often fancied that something weightier than the usual troubles of life weighed upon him.  At last he spoke, just as I was about to question him: 

“Are you afraid to die, Sebastian?”

Not knowing what else to say, I answered, “No, my child.”

“I wonder if you enjoy life in community?”

This was still stranger.  I could but reply that I had never known any other life; that I was fitted for nothing else.

“But still,” persisted he, “would you not like to leave it—­to have a career of your own before you die?  Do you think this is what a man is created for—­to give away his chance to live?”