"Well, my boy," his father asked him, blowing noisily at eachspoonful of soup he absorbed, "well, did you enjoy yourselfyesterday?"He answered curtly and crossly. Everything stirred his gorge.
His aunt's print gown filled him with a sort of rage.
His father propounded a hundred minute inquiries; he would fainhave pictured the whole expedition to himself as he consumed hisbowl of soup. He had seen Saint-Cloud in his soldiering days;but he had never been there since. He had a bright idea; theywould go to Versailles, the three of them; his sister would seeto having a bit of veal cooked overnight, and they could takeit with them. They would have a look at the pictures, eat theirsnack on the great lawn, and have a fine time generally.
Jean, who was horrified at the whole project, opened hisexercise-books and buried his head in his lessons, to avoid thenecessity of hearing any more and answering questions. He did notas a rule show such alacrity about setting to work. His fatherremarked on the fact, commending him for his zeal.
"We should play," he announced, "when it is play-time, and workwhen it is the time to work," and _he_ set to work flatteninga piece of shagreen.
Jean fell into a brown study. He had caught a glimpse of a worldhe knew to be for ever closed against him, but towards whichall the forces of his young heart drew him irresistibly. He didnot dream Madame Ewans could ever be different from what he hadseen her. He could not imagine her otherwise dressed or amid anyother surroundings. He knew nothing whatever of women; this onehad seemed motherly to him, and it was a mother such as MadameEwans he would have liked to have. But how his heart beat andhis brow burned as he pictured this imaginary mother a reality!
Dating from the day at Saint-Cloud, Jean thought himself unhappy,and unhappy he became in fact. He was wilfully, deliberatelyinsubordinate, proud of breaking rules and defying punishments.
He and his school-mates attended the classes of a _Lycée_ inthe _Quartier Latin_. Directly he had taken his place on theremotest bench in the well-warmed lecture-room, he would becomeabsorbed in some sentimental novel concealed under piles ofLatin and Greek authors. Sometimes the master, short-sighted ashe was, would catch the culprit in the act.
Still, Jean had his hours of triumph. His translations wereremarkable, not for accuracy, but at any rate for elegance. So,too, his compositions sometimes contained happy phrases thatearned him high praise. On the theme, "The maiden Theano defendingAlcibiades against the incensed Athenians," he wrote a Latinoration that was warmly commended by Monsieur Duruy, the thenInspector of Public Instruction, and gained the young authorsome weeks of scholastic fame.
On holidays he would roam the boulevards and gaze with greedyeyes at the jewels, the silks and satins, the bronzes, thephotographs of women, displayed in the shop-windows--the thousandand one gewgaws and frivolities of fashion that seemed to himto sum up the necessary conditions of happiness.
His entry into the philosophy class was a red-letter day; hesported his first tall hat and smoked his first non-surreptitiouscigarettes. He possessed a certain brilliancy of mind and a keenwit that amused his companions, whose superior he was in giftsof imagination.
His last vacation was passed in tolerable content. His father,thinking him looking pale, sent him on a visit to relatives livingin a village near Chartres. Jean, the tedious farm dinner ended,would go and sit under a tree and bury himself in a novel.
Occasionally he would ride to the city in the miller's cart.
Often he would be drenched all the way by the rain that felldrearily at nightfall. Then he would enjoy the fun of dryinghimself before the huge fireplace of some inn on the outskirtsof the town, beside the savoury roast on the turning spit. Heeven had a day's shooting with an old flint-lock fowling-pieceunder the auspices of his cousin the miller. In short, he couldboast on his return of having had a country holiday.