Suddenly, through the open window, little Amedee saw the sycamore in the yard.  A young blackbird, who did not know the place, came and perched for an instant only upon one of its branches.

We may fancy the tree saying to it: 

“What are you doing here?  The Luxembourg is only a short distance from here, and is charming.  Children are there, making mud-pies, nurses upon the seats chattering with the military, lovers promenading, holding hands.  Go there, you simpleton!”

The blackbird flew away, and the university tree, once more solitary and alone, drooped its dispirited leaves.  Amedee, in his confused childish desire for information, was just ready to ask why this sycamore looked so morose, when the door opened and M. Batifol appeared.  The master of the school had a severe aspect, in spite of his almost indecorous name.  He resembled a hippopotamus clothed in an ample black coat.  He entered slowly and bowed in a dignified way to M. Violette, then seated himself in a leather armchair before his papers, and, taking off his velvet skull-cap, revealed such a voluminous round, yellow baldness that little Amedee compared it with terror to the globe on the top of his desk.

It was just the same thing!  These two round balls were twins!  There was even upon M. Batifol’s cranium an eruption of little red pimples, grouped almost exactly like an archipelago in the Pacific Ocean.

“Whom have I the honor—?” asked the schoolmaster, in an unctuous voice, an excellent voice for proclaiming names at the distribution of prizes.

M. Violette was not a brave man.  It was very foolish, but when the senior clerk called him into his office to do some work, he was always seized with a sort of stammering and shaking of the limbs.  A person so imposing as M. Batifol was not calculated to give him assurance.  Amedee was timid, too, like his father, and while the child, frightened by the resemblance of the sphere to M. Batifol’s bald head, was already trembling, M. Violette, much agitated, was trying to think of something to say, consequently, he said nothing of any account.  However, he ended by repeating almost the same things he had said to Mamma Gerard:  “My son is nearly seven years old, and very backward, etc.”

The teacher appeared to listen to M. Violette with benevolent interest, inclining his geographical cranium every few seconds.  In reality, he was observing and judging his visitors.  The father’s scanty overcoat, the rather pale face of the little boy, all betokened poverty.  It simply meant a day scholar at thirty francs a month, nothing more.  So M. Batifol shortened the “speech” that under like circumstances he addressed to his new pupils.