"God's head! Flies in the month of January, my boy!" replied the armorer jovially, as he came abreast of his apprentice. "You must be thinking yourself still in summer on the roads of Milan."
"Well, I shall not insist on my fib, Master Raimbaud. I must admit to you that the nearer we approach Paris, where my mother, and father, and sister, and brother, and my good uncle Josephin are expecting me, I feel such a thrill of joy, that without my knowledge my spurs approach the flanks of my horse—and then the beast starts trotting."
"I can understand your impatience, my lad. It does credit to your heart. But endeavor to control yourself a little. We have ridden a long stretch to-day. We should not wind our horses. Certain of the joy in wait for you, what is the use of running after it?"
"That's true, Master Raimbaud," replied Odelin, red with emotion and his eyes dimmed with moisture. "Within two hours I shall see again all those whom I love; I shall embrace them—"
"And I shall add to their happiness at seeing you back again, by telling them how well pleased I have been with you during our trip."
"How could I otherwise than endeavor to please you, Master Raimbaud? If I were your own son you could not treat me with greater tenderness, or more attention."
"For the simple reason that a worthy son would not behave differently toward me than yourself, my little Odelin. Such are the fruits of the bringing up you have received from your worthy father and your excellent mother."
"Oh, Master Raimbaud, when I think of the caresses that await me!"
"Look to your spurs, my lad! Look to your spurs. We shall now soon be at the top of the hill. Stop your horse a moment. One of the straps of your valise is loose. Fasten it."
"Oh, heaven! If I had lost my valise!" cried the apprentice, reddening at the thought. Stopping his horse, he turned in his saddle, and hastened to fasten the strap, enumerating with childish glee as he did so the treasures contained in the bag: "Had I lost you, my dear valise, it would then have been adieu to my little presents—the brooch of chiseled silver for my mother, the Quintus Curtius printed in Bologna for my good and learned father, a vermillion pin for my handsome sister Hena, a bronze writing case, with all its accessories, for the studious Hervé—"