n the house was a relief to the poet.
He loved Ida, whom he called Charlotte in memory of Goethe, and also
because he wished to obliterate all her past, and to wipe out even the
name of Ida de Barancy. He loved her in his own fashion, and made of her
a complete slave. She had no will, no opinion of her own, and D'Argenton
had grown tired of being perpetually agreed with. Now, at least, he
would have some one to contradict, to argue with, to tutor, and to
bully; and it was in this spirit that he undertook Jack's education,
for which he made all arrangements with that methodical solemnity
characteristic of the man's smallest actions.

The next morning, Jack saw, when he awoke, a large card fastened to
the wall, and on it, inscribed in the beautiful writing of the poet, a
carefully prepared arrangement for the routine of the day.

"_Rise at six_. From six to seven, breakfast; from seven to eight,
recitation; from eight to nine," and so on.

Days ordered in this systematic manner resemble those windows whose
shutters hardly permit the entrance of air enough to breathe, or light
to see with. Generally these rules are made only to be broken, but
D'Argenton allowed no such laxity.

D'Argenton's method of education was too severe for Jack, who was,
however, by no means wanting in intelligence, and was well advanced in
his studies. He was disturbed, too, by the personality of the poet, to
whom he had a very strong aversion, and above all he was overwhelmed by
the new life he was leading.

Suddenly transported from the mouldy lane, and from the academy, to the
country, to the woods and the fields, he was at once excited and charmed
by Nature. The truest way would have been to have laid aside all books
until the child himself demanded them. Often of a sunny day, when he sat
in the tower opposite his teacher, he was seized with a strong desire
to leap out of the window, and rush into the fresh woods after the birds
that had just flown away, or in search of the squirrel of which he had
caught a glimpse. What a penance it was to write his copy, while the
wild roses beckoned him to come and pluck them!

"This child is an idiot," cried D'Argenton, when to all his questions
Jack stammered some answer as far from what he should have said as if
he had that moment fallen from the light cloud he had been steadily
watching. At the end of a month the poet announced that he relinquished
the task, that it was a mere loss of precious time