About eight o’clock in the morning, Monsieur Jules Carimon heard of it. In going through the large iron entrance-gates of the college to his day’s work, he found himself accosted by one of two or three young gamins of pupils, who were also entering. It was Dion Pamart. The well-informed reader is of course aware that the French educational colleges are attended by all classes, high and low, indiscriminately.
“Monsieur, have you heard?” said the lad, with timid deprecation. “Mademoiselle is dead.”
Monsieur Jules Carimon turned his eyes on the speaker. At first he did not recognize him: his own work lay with the advanced desks.
“Ah, c’est Pamart, n’est-ce-pas?” said he. “What did you say, my boy? Some one is dead?”
Dion Pamart repeated his information. The master, inwardly shocked, took refuge in disbelief.
“I think you must be mistaken, Pamart,” said he.
“Oh no, I’m not, sir. Mademoiselle was taken frightfully ill again last night, and they fetched my mother. They had two doctors to her and all; but they couldn’t do anything for her, and she died. Grandmother gave me my breakfast just now; she said my mother was crying too much to come home. The other lady, the captain’s wife, has been in hysterics all night.”
“Go on to your desks,” commanded Monsieur Carimon to the small fry now gathered round him.
He turned back home himself. When he entered the salle-à-manger, Pauline was carrying away the last of the breakfast-things. Her mistress stood putting a little water on a musk plant in the window.