"You turn me away!" repeated young Faribole, lifting up his hands to the sky.
"I do not give you five minutes to be gone; you depend upon me here, solely on me."
The unhappy Faribole began to weep, and the steward added, in a savage voice,—
"Come, now! no faces! Take off your clothes, and put on your rags, and disappear!"
Having pronounced these words, Lustucru took from a closet the miserable vestments which Faribole had worn the day of his installation. The steward seized them disdainfully between his thumb and forefinger, and threw them upon the floor.
Faribole’s Old Clothes.
The boy looked with an air of despair at the habits he had on, compared them with those which he was obliged to resume, and the comparison was so little to the advantage of the latter, that he broke into loud sobs.
However, he was decided not to purchase handsome clothes at the price of a perfidy and a horrible murder. He resolutely threw off his vest, then his neckerchief; but at the idea of giving up his new shoes, of walking barefoot, as formerly, over roads paved with gravel and broken glass, the luckless Faribole had a moment of hesitation.
Father Lustucru, who observed him closely, profited by this circumstance with consummate cunning.