"I think my wife must be up. We will go down stairs. Besides, a working day never begins too soon. Come, young man, come."
On going forth, Jacques secured the garret door with a padlock.
This time he guided his ward into what Therese called the study. The furniture of this little room was composed of glazed cases of butterflies, herbs and minerals, framed in ebonized wood; books in a walnut case, a long, narrow table, covered with a worn and blackened cloth; with manuscripts orderly arranged on it, and four wooden chairs covered in horsehair. All was glossy, lustrous, irreproachable in order and cleanness, but cold to sight and heart, from the light through the gauze curtains being gray and weak, and luxury, or comfort itself, being far from this cold, ashy and black fireside.
A small rosewood piano stood on four legs, and a clock on the mantel-piece alone showed any life in this domestic tomb.
Gilbert walked in respectfully, for it was grand in his eyes; almost as rich as Taverney, and the waxed floor imposed on him.
"I am going to show you the nature of your work," said the old gentleman. "This is music paper. When I copy a page I earn ten cents, the price I myself fix. Do you know music?"
"I know the names of the notes but not their value, as well as these signs. In the house where I lived was a young lady who played the harpsichord——" and Gilbert hung his head, coloring.
"Oh, the same who studied botany," queried Jacques.
"Precisely; and she played very well."
"This does not account for your learning music."