I considered for three agonizing seconds, and hazarded a guess. “The first, sir.” I had guessed right. We were friends. At bottom the professor is a capital fellow; kindly, so long as the dignity of the Code is not in question, or the extent of one’s legal knowledge; proverbially upright and honorable in his private life.
At home he may be seen at his window tending his canaries, which, he says, is no change of occupation. To get to his house I have only to go by my favorite road through the Luxembourg. I am soon at his door.
“Is Monsieur Flamaran at home?”
The old servant who opened the door eyed me solemnly. So many young freshmen come and pester her master under the pretext of paying their respects. Their respects, indeed! They would bore him to death if he had to see them all. The old woman inferred, probably from my moustache, that I had taken at least my bachelor’s degree.
“I think he is.”
He was very much at home in his overheated study, where he sat wrapped up in a dressing-gown and keeping one eye shut to strengthen the other.
After a moment’s hesitation he recognized me, and held out his hand.
“Ah! my Junian Latin. How are you getting on?”
“I am all right, sir; it’s my Junian Latins who are not getting on.”
“You don’t say so. We must look into that. But before we begin—I forget where you come from. I like to know where people come from.”