“I don’t know,” I answered.
Another face of disgust, more disdainful than the first, followed my reply. He then placed the point of his first finger on the sleeve of my jacket, which was clean but not new, and he said, with a rude laugh, “Your parents are poor, or you would wear better clothes. I dislike poor people, and so does my mamma.”
He then turned on his heel and went off to walk by himself at the other end of the playground. One would have thought that there was not one amongst us rich enough to be admitted to the honour of walking with him.
As for me, I remained stupefied at what he had told me. I had never thought about whether my father and mother were rich or poor. I was rather inclined to think them rich, because they did not go about with a stick and wallet, asking for alms like old Father Chaumont, who came every Friday to beg at our door.
The young Mr. de la Croulle put strange ideas into my head.
XXI.
A FRIEND.—PRISONER’S BASE.
“So The Count asked you if you were rich?” said a pretty little boy of about my own age, as he came up to where I was standing; “don’t mind what he says, he is a little cracked. Did what he said distress you? Don’t cry, there is nothing to cry about; The Count doesn’t know what he says half his time. He always goes off by himself in that grand way, when we first come out to play; but when once we have settled upon a game, and are going to begin, he forgets his straps and other toggery, and plays harder than any of us. Will you play at Prisoner’s Base?”
“I don’t know the game,” I answered.
“No?” said he, in a surprised tone. “Well, I will teach it to you; it’s not difficult, you shall be on my side.”