M. Violette was an employe of the Ministry, and was obliged to work seven hours a day, one or two hours of which were devoted to going wearily through a bundle of probably superfluous papers and documents.  The rest of the time was given to other occupations as varied as they were intellectual; such as yawning, filing his nails, talking about his chiefs, groaning over the slowness of promotion, cooking a potato or a sausage in the stove for his luncheon, reading the newspaper down to the editor’s signature, and advertisements in which some country cure expresses his artless gratitude at being cured at last of an obstinate disease.  In recompense for this daily captivity, M. Violette received, at the end of the month, a sum exactly sufficient to secure his household soup and beef, with a few vegetables.

In order that his son might attain such a distinguished position, M. Violette’s father, a watch-maker in Chartres, had sacrificed everything, and died penniless.  The Silvio Pellico official, during these exasperating and tiresome hours, sometimes regretted not having simply succeeded his father.  He could see himself, in imagination, in the light little shop near the cathedral, with a magnifying-glass fixed in his eye, ready to inspect some farmer’s old “turnip,” and suspended over his bench thirty silver and gold watches left by farmers the week before, who would profit by the next market-day to come and get them, all going together with a merry tick.  It may be questioned whether a trade as low as this would have been fitting for a young man of education, a Bachelor of Arts, crammed with Greek roots and quotations, able to prove the existence of God, and to recite without hesitation the dates of the reigns of Nabonassar and of Nabopolassar.  This watch-maker, this simple artisan, understood modern genius better.  This modest shopkeeper acted according to the democratic law and followed the instinct of a noble and wise ambition.  He made of his son—­a sensible and intelligent boy—­a machine to copy documents, and spend his days guessing the conundrums in the illustrated newspapers, which he read as easily as M. Ledrain would decipher the cuneiform inscriptions on an Assyrian brick.  Also—­an admirable result, which should rejoice the old watch-maker’s shade—­his son had become a gentleman, a functionary, so splendidly remunerated by the State that he was obliged to wear patches of cloth, as near like the trousers as possible, on their seat; and his poor young wife, during her life, had always been obliged, as rent-day drew near, to carry the soup-ladle and six silver covers to the pawn-shop.

At all events, M. Violette was a widower now, and being busy all day was very much embarrassed with the care of his little son.  His neighbors, the Gerards, were very kind to Amedee, and continued to keep him with them all the afternoon.  This state of affairs could not always continue, and M. Violette hesitated to abuse his worthy friends’ kindness in that way.