breathing and the scratch, scratch of steel pens. The youngestthere, his cheeks still browned by the sea-breezes, was dreamingover his half-finished exercise of a beach on the Normandy coastand the sand-castles he and his friends used to build, to seethem swept away presently by the waves of the rising tide.
At the top of the great room, at the high desk where theSuperintendent of Studies had solemnly installed him underneaththe great ebony crucifix, Jean Servien, his head between histwo hands, was reading a Latin poet.
He felt utterly sad and lonely; but he had not realized yet thathis new life was an actual fact, and from moment to moment heexpected the schoolroom would suddenly vanish and the desks withtheir litter of dictionaries and grammars and the young headsgilded by the lamp-light melt into thin air.
Suddenly a paper pellet, shot from the far end of the hall, struckhim on the cheek. He turned pale and cried in a voice shakingwith anger:
"Monsieur de Grizolles, leave the room!"There was some whispering and stifled laughter, then peace wasrestored. The scratching of pens began again, and exercises werepassed surreptitiously from hand to hand for cribbing purposes.
He was an usher.
His father had come to this decision by the advice of MonsieurMarguerite, the _vicaire_ of his parish and a friend of the AbbéBordier. The bookbinder, having a high respect for knowledge,entertained a correspondingly high idea of the status of all itsministers. Assistant master struck him as an imposing title, andhe was delighted to have his son connected with an aristocraticand religious foundation.
"Your son," the Abbé Marguerite told him, "will read for hisMaster's degree in the intervals of his duties, and the titleof Licencié-ès-Lettres will open the door to the higher walksof teaching. We have known assistants rise to high positionsin the University and even occupy Monsieur de Fontanes' chair."These considerations had clenched the bookbinder's resolution,and this was now the third day of Jean's ushership.