“Here it is!” he cried, with an air of triumph.
He unfolded the prospectus and began to read, or rather to spell with difficulty:
“Gymnase Moronval—in the—in the—”
“Give it to me,” said Mademoiselle Constant; and taking it from him, she read it at one glance.
“Moronval Academy—situated in the finest quarter of Paris—a family school—large garden—the number of pupils limited—course of instruction—particular attention paid to the correction of the accent of foreigners—”
Mademoiselle Constant interrupted herself here to breathe, and to exclaim, “This seems all right enough!”
“I think so,” said the cook.
The reading of the prospectus was resumed, but Jack was soundly asleep, and heard no more.
He was dreaming. Yes, while his future was thus under discussion around this kitchen-table, while his mother was dancing as Folly in her rose-colored skirts and silver bells, he was dreaming of the kind priest, and of the tender voice that had murmured—“Poor child!”