“He died suddenly,” he said; “but come, child, you neglect your lesson.”
But he was not to evade the persistent little questioner.
“What was my father’s name, what is mine?” he asked; “other boys have always two names—or three, sometimes even four—but I am only Péron.”
The priest spoke severely now. “My child,” he replied, “you have no name but Péron now, nor can I tell you your father’s name; neither can Maître Jacques. Be content, my boy, to bear the name we have given you and to do your duty, since you may not know more than we can tell you. See here rather this sentence which you left half read.”
Péron followed his guiding pencil for a few moments, and then he looked up again, fixing his eyes on his instructor.
“You have not told me who died in the room at the château at Poissy,” he said.
The priest passed his hand over his eyes; he was thinking prayerfully, although the boy did not know it. A long, sad vista opened before Père Antoine’s mental vision; the questions of love, duty, necessity, beset him. He was a wise man as well as a good one, but sometimes a child may confound a sage. He loved Péron too, with the tenderness of a woman, and he felt that with him lay the chief responsibility, since he was the most intelligent as well as the most deeply concerned of his guardians. After an instant’s pause, a pause so slight that the eager interrogator scarcely noted it, the priest answered him in his usual calm tone.
“The Marquise de Nançay died there, Péron,” he said gravely. “A very good woman.”
This answer did not satisfy the boy.
“Maître Jacques said she was like a saint,” he remarked curiously.