Running up in a state of great excitement, I cried out, “Monsieur Jean Baptiste, it’s I!”
“Well,” he said, laughing; “I am quite aware of the fact. What do you want, my boy?”
“What do I want? Oh, I want to thank you, and to tell you that I will never be a keeper. The only calling worth following is that of a carpenter, and I mean to be one, Monsieur Drouet.”
The carriage went off.
“So you have been reading ‘Emile?’” he asked, taking me inside.
“Yes; up to here.” And I showed him page 160 of the work.
“Bravo!” said Monsieur Drouet. “But it is not enough to read; you must also understand.”
“Of course, M. Jean Baptiste,” said I. “There are many things that I cannot understand, but I always look to you for an explanation.”
“So you are come expressly for that?”
“No, M. Jean Baptiste. Not expressly for that, but to thank you for your kindness. After my father, who gave me life—after my aunt and my uncle, who have fed me, I owe more to you than to any other person in the world; for has not Rousseau himself said that every man is born twice—first, physically, then intellectually? And it is you who have successfully brought me through this second birth.”