I ran to M. Picot's house; he was not up; I made such a fine racket that I awakened him.
"Oh! oh!" he said, as he got into his corduroy breeches and fine leather gaiters, "you here already, lad?"
"It is late, Monsieur Picot; it is seven o'clock."
"Yes, but it has been snowing, and the larks will not rise before noon."
"What! must we wait till noon?" I cried.
"Well, not quite so long as that; but we will have breakfast first."
"What for?"
"Why, to eat, child," M. Picot replied. "I am far too old a sportsman to set out on an empty stomach; it is well enough at your age."
And when I came to consider matters I was not very averse to breakfasting, especially at M. Picot's, where they did things well.