I told him the whole story from my leaving Henri IV. to my approaching appointment at M. Berthomieu's. He looked up.
"You've accepted it?"
"What else could I do?" I answered sharply. "I can't starve."
Starve! The word sounded oddly among all the Gobelins, Boule furniture and Sèvres.
Ribeyre rose. I had an intuition that I was saved.
"You needn't go to Berthomieu's, old chap. You'll do for yourself at that game. I know you, and I'm positive you're not made for the University. What you want is this."
With a sweep of his hand he indicated the pageant of power about us.
What a psychologist Ribeyre was!
"Listen," he said, perching himself on the arm of my chair. "Have you any objection to leaving the country for a bit? I say for a bit, because it is only in Paris that the game is really played and won. At present you haven't a sou. This is the sort of place where a fellow like you with enough to live on for a year and no material preoccupations could have the future at his feet."
"Well?" said I, breathless.