I say at the Abbé Grégoire's, but I should have said under the Abbé Grégoire. For, whilst all these things had been happening, the abbé had lost his certificate as master of the school.
Some decision of the University had forbade him to keep a school at his own house—although he was allowed to teach pupils in the town.
For the consideration of six francs a month, which my mother agreed to pay him, I became one of his town pupils.
I was, besides, to take lessons in arithmetic with Oblet—the town schoolmaster, and to continue my fencing lessons with old Mounier.
And as for riding, I had taught myself, as the Roman soldiers did, by mounting bare-backed any horses I could get hold of. My sole education then was limited to as much Latin as the Abbé Grégoire could teach me; to studying the four rules of arithmetic with M. Oblet; and to executing counter-stroke, feint and parry with old Mounier.
Oblet, I must say, had the least enviable task, for I have always had such a profound aversion towards arithmetic that I never have been able to get beyond multiplication.
And even to-day I am incapable of doing the slightest sum in division.
But if I did not learn how to calculate under Oblet—God, who watched over me, providentially saw that I learnt something else.
Besides a perfect knowledge of his Barême, Oblet wrote a splendid hand; he could make all the letters of the alphabet, like M. Prudhomme, with one flourish of his pen; and, furthermore, he could draw the most marvellous designs, ornaments, hearts, rosettes, lacs d'amour, Adam and Eve, the portrait of Louis XVIII., and I know not what else.
Now, handwriting was quite a different matter,—here I was gifted! When Oblet had given me my arithmetic lessons, and, to acquit his conscience, had dunned the three rules into me—(for, as I have said, I never got beyond multiplication)—we got out fine pieces of white paper, pared three or four quill pens in advance, to coarse or fine or medium points, and then began writing round-hand, flourishes and up-strokes galore.