But the Cardinal had disappeared with his young charge and Madame’s speech was lost upon him.  She had therefore to content herself with relating the story of “Monseigneur’s foundling” to her husband, who just then came into the kitchen to take his breakfast before starting off to work in his market-garden.  He listened with interest and attention.

“A boy is always a trouble,” he said sententiously—­“And it is likely that so Monseigneur will find it.  How old would the child be?”

“About twelve, I should say,” answered Madame—­“But beautiful as a little angel, Jean!”

“That’s a pity!” and Patoux shook his head ominously—­“Tis bad enough when a girl is beautiful,—­but a boy!—­Well, well!  Monseigneur is a wise man, and a saint they say,—­he knows best,—­ but I fear he has taken a burden upon himself which he will very soon regret!  What dost thou think of it, petite?”

Madame hesitated a moment before replying.

“Truly, I do not know what to think,” she answered—­“For myself, I have not spoken to the child.  I have seen him,—­yes!—­and at the sight of him a something in my throat rose up and choked me as it were,—­and stopped me from saying a rough word.  Such a lonely gentle lad!—­one could not be harsh with him, and yet—­”

“Yet!  Oh, yes, I know!” said Patoux, finishing his coffee at a gulp and smiling,—­“Women will always be women,—­and a handsome face in girl or boy is enough to make fools of them all.  Where are the children?  Are they gone to school?”

“Yes—­they went before the Cardinal was up.  ’Tis a Saturday, and they will be back early,—­they are going to bring little Fabien Doucet to Monseigneur.”

“What for?” enquired Patoux, his round eyes opening widely in amazement.

“Oh, for a strange fancy!  That he may bless the child and pray Our Lady to cure him of his lameness.  It was Babette’s whim.  I told her the Cardinal was a saint,—­and she said,—­well! she said she would never believe it unless he worked a miracle!  The wicked mischief that girl is!—­as bad as Henri, who puts a doubt on everything!”

“’Tis the school,” said Jean gloomily—­“I must speak to Pere Laurent.”

“Truly that would be well,” said Madame—­“He may explain what we cannot.  All the same, you may be sure the children will bring Fabien Doucet to Monseigneur;—­they have made up their minds about it,—­and if the little miserable’s lameness gets no better, we shall have work enough in future to make the saints respected!”

Patoux muttered something inaudible, and went his way.  Life was in his opinion, a very excellent thing,—­nevertheless there were a few details about it which occasionally troubled him, and one of these details was decidedly the “national education” question.  It struck him as altogether remarkable that the State should force him to send his children to school whether he liked it or no; and moreover that the system of instruction at the said school should