“Don’t know: they never write.”
It was evident that this pupil of the Moronval Academy had not been educated in the art of conversation, and Jack listened with many misgivings.
The indifferent fashion with which this youth spoke of his parents, added to what M. Moronval had previously said of the family influences of which most of his pupils had been deprived since infancy, impressed him unfavorably.
It seemed to the child that he was to live among orphans or cast-off children, and would be himself as much cast off as if he had come from Timbuctoo or Otaheite.
Again he caught the dress of his mother’s servant. “Tell her to come and see me,” he whispered; “O, tell her to come.”
And when the door closed behind her, he understood that one chapter in his life was finished; that his existence as a spoiled child, as a petted baby, had vanished into the past, and those dear and happy days would never again return.
While he stood silently weeping, with his face pressed against a window that led into the garden, a hand was extended over his shoulder containing something black.
It was Said, who, as a consolation, offered him the stump of a cigar.
“Take this: I have a trunk full,” said the interesting young man, shutting his eyes so as to be able to speak.
Jack, smiling through his tears, made a sign that he did not dare to accept this singular gift; and Said, whose eloquence was very limited, stood silently planted by his side until M. Moronval returned.