From that day, while he was watching his cows, not only did he learn to read well and to write with a stick on the ground, but he learned also the Latin and French words in the dictionary, one by one, and his youthful brain developed with this rude and imperfect method of study.
Whenever he made a little money he bought books on medicine with it, and studied hard by day; in the evenings he read under the farmer’s smoky lamp, and at night by moonlight.
He gathered simples for an herbalist whom he had met in the fields, and received some useful lessons from him. This herbalist took an interest in the poor child, directed his studies a little, and bought him some useful books.
Pierre invented a pretty wicker-basket in which to put fresh cheese during the summer, and, as the farmer’s wife sold her cheese in these baskets for a few cents extra, she shared the profits with Pierre.
Some years passed thus. Pierre tried several times to see his mother, but she lived shut up in the house, sequestered, perhaps, and he could never succeed in catching a glimpse of her.
His brother, who was five years older than himself, and studying medicine at Paris, passed his time merrily during his vacations at home with the young men of the town.
Pierre saw him pointed out by a friend one day, when he came with a troop of young men and pretty girls to drink warm milk at the farm.
“This milk is served to you by the cowherd of this place, who is your legitimate brother,” said Pierre to him, presenting him with a frothy bowl of it.
“My brother is dead,” replied he.
“You will find him before many years very much alive in Paris, sir!” answered Pierre.