freely
gave to the little boy, who, in his turn, gratefully applied himself
with his whole heart to his lessons. Cecile was almost always present,
and was as pleased as Jack himself when her grandfather, examining the
copy-book, said, "Well done!" To his mother, Jack said nothing of
his labors; he determined to prove to her at some future day that the
diagnosis of the poet had been incorrect. This concealment was rendered
very easy, as the mother grew hourly more and more indifferent to her
child, and more completely absorbed in D'Argenton. The boy's comings and
goings were almost unnoticed. His seat at the table was often vacant,
but no one asked where he had been. New guests filled the board, for
D'Argenton kept open house; yet the poet was by no means generous in his
hospitality, and when Charlotte would say to him, timidly, "I am out of
money, my friend," he would reply by a wry face and the word, "Already?"
But vanity was stronger than avarice, and the pleasure of patronizing
his old friends, the Bohemians, with whom he had formerly lived, carried
the day. They all knew that he had a pleasant home, that the air was
good and the table better; consequently, one would say to another, "Who
wants to go to Etiolles to-night?" They came in droves.

Poor Charlotte was in despair. "Madame Archambauld, are there
eggs?--is there any game? Company has come, and what shall we give
them?"

"Anything will suit, madame, I fancy, for they look half starved," said
the old woman, astonished at the unkempt, unshorn, and hungry aspect of
her master's friends.

D'Argenton delighted in showing them over the house; and then they
dispersed to the fields, to the river-side, and into the forest, as
happy and frolicsome as old horses turned out to grass. In the fresh
country, in the full sunlight, those rusty coats and worn faces seemed
more rusty and more worn than when seen in Paris; but they were happy,
and D'Argenton radiant. No one ventured to dispute his eternal "I
think," and "I know." Was he not the master of the house, and had he not
the key of the wine cellar?

Charlotte, too, was well pleased. It was to her inconsequent nature and
Bohemian instincts a renewal of the excitement of her old life. She
was flattered and admired, and, while remaining true to her poet, was
pleased to show him that she had not lost her power of charming.

Months passed on. The little house was enveloped in the melancholy mists
of autumn; then winter