"Lazarre," said my master, "you were a good lad, studious and zealous beyond anything I ever saw."
"And now I am bad and lazy."
"You have dropped your books and taken to wild ways."
"There is one thing, dear master, I haven't done: I haven't written poetry."
He blinked and smiled, and felt in his breast pocket, but thought better of it, and forebore to draw the paper out. There was no escaping his tenacious grip. He sat by and exercised me in Latin declensions while I dressed. We had our supper together. I saw no member of the household except the men, Pierre and Jean. Doctor Chantry ordered a mattress put in my room and returned there with me.
We talked long on the approaching departure of the count and Madame de Ferrier. He told me the latest details of preparation, and tremulously explained how he must feel the loss of his sister.
"I have nothing left but you, Lazarre."
"My dear master," I said, patting one of his shriveled hands between mine, "I am going to be open with you."
I sat on the side of my bed facing his arm-chair, and the dressing-glass reflected his bald head and my young head drawn near together.
"Did you ever feel as if you were a prince?"