"Monsieur de la Roche-Noire, at Saint-Amand, as at all small towns, there are some agreeable and some original people. There is a market there every Saturday, for wine, hemp, paper and cheese.—I have only two children from the town in my school, but they belong to the best families."
"I have a letter for the local notary," said Robineau. "I shall go to see him to-morrow, and ask him to invite all the best people in the town to a fête, in my name."
Alfred and Edouard, who, albeit they did not admit it to each other, were engrossed by the same subject, tried to lead the conversation in another direction.
"Do you know the village of Chadrat?" Alfred asked.
"Chadrat! yes, it’s a vile hole—a wretched hamlet! I haven’t a child from Chadrat in my school! The natives, like the Tartars, are brought up in ignorance and in contempt of shirts. They don’t even know how to spell!"
"Have you ever heard of the White House?" asked Edouard.
"The White House?—That’s a female boarding-school, isn’t it?"
"No, it’s an unoccupied house that is the terror of the neighborhood."
"Oh, yes! I think I remember. I had some talk about it with my pupils, and we took a walk to the valley, where we saw nothing extraordinary.—Indeed, messieurs, I ask you whether people brought up in an atmosphere of knowledge can possibly believe in ghosts?—Non est hic locus!—I believe in fools, in idiots, in numskulls;—I have the honor to drink to the health of Monsieur de la Roche-Noire;—but ghosts!—Retro Satanas!—They don’t enter into my system of education."
"So I say," assented Robineau; "I call it nonsense—old women’s tales."