The policy of the little scamp was to appear not to hear what they were saying when it was against himself.
“The boy is intelligent enough to know good from evil,” continued the count, “and he is old enough to work; yet he thinks of nothing but how to commit evil without being found out. All the keepers know him. He is very well aware that the master of an estate may witness a trespass on his property and yet have no right to arrest the trespasser. I have known him keep his cows boldly in my meadows, though he knew I saw him; but now, ever since I have been mayor, he runs away fast enough.”
“Oh, that is very wrong,” said the countess; “you should not take other people’s things, my little man.”
“Madame, we must eat. My grandpa gives me more slaps than food, and they don’t fill my stomach, slaps don’t. When the cows come in I milk ‘em just a little and I live on that. Monseigneur isn’t so poor but what he’ll let me drink a drop o’ milk the cows get from his grass?”
“Perhaps he hasn’t eaten anything to-day,” said the countess, touched by his misery. “Give him some bread and the rest of that chicken; let him have his breakfast,” she added, looking at the footman. “Where do you sleep, my child?”
“Anywhere, madame; under the stars in summer, and wherever they’ll let us in winter.”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“There is still time to bring him up to better ways,” said the countess to her husband.
“He will make a good soldier,” said the general, gruffly; “he is well toughened. I went through that kind of thing myself, and here I am.”