Jean returned the gaze with a steady, respectful glance; then let his eyes fall until they were looking at the floor just below the curé's feet. It was not polite to stare at visitors, but one might look at their boots. The boots of M. Paradis were covered with dust. He had walked all the way from the presbytery, two miles or more--that was evident.
"Ah, it is you, Jean," said the curé.
"Oui, Monsieur," said Jean,
"How old are you, Jean?"
"Sixteen years, Monsieur."
"Sixteen years! It seems like yesterday since you were baptized. How the time goes! Sixteen years, you say? You are no longer a child, Jean, no indeed. Well, it is high time to decide what we are going to make of you, certainly. Tell me, Jean; you admire the character of your patron saint, do you not?"
"Mais oui, Monsieur."
"In what respect, my son?"
"Oh, Monsieur, he was a hero, without fear and without reproach, like Bayard."
"Bayard, Jean, what do you know of him?"