The men smiled pityingly, and from the window came a great sob.
“In a week we will go, my boy,” said Labassandre, cheeringly. But D’Argenton, with a frown directed to the window, said, “You can leave the room now, and be ready for your journey in a week.”
Jack ran down the stairs, and out into the village street, and did not stop to take breath until he reached the house of Dr. Rivals, who listened to his story with indignation.
“It is preposterous!” he cried. “The very idea of making a mechanic of you is absurd. I will see your father at once.”
The persons who saw the two pass through the street—the doctor gesticulating, and little Jack without a hat—concluded that some one must be ill at Aulnettes. This was not the case, however; for Dr. Rivals heard loud talking and laughing as he entered the house, and Charlotte, as she descended the stairs, was singing a bar from the last opera.
“I wish to say a few words in private to you, sir,” said Mr. Rivals.
“We are among friends,” answered D’Argenton, “and have no secrets. You have something to say, I suppose, in regard to Jack. These gentlemen know all that I have done for him, my motives, and the peculiar circumstances of the case.”
“But, my friend “—Charlotte said, timidly, fearing the explanation that was forthcoming.
“Go on, doctor,” interrupted the poet, sternly.
“Jack has just told me that you have apprenticed him to the Forge at Indret. This, of course, is a mistake on his part.”