“Don’t weep, mademoiselle, you are good; it is I that am wicked, vile, a beast! I will give them up—I will read no more. We will burn them all. I will never speak to M. Karalampi again. I promise, mademoiselle.”
“How did you first learn to know M. Karalampi?” asked Cecil.
“My father wished me to take lessons in French, mademoiselle, and M. Karalampi offered to teach me, and then he said that I should learn best in reading by myself, and he would borrow some books for me from the French Consul.”
“So he lent you these dreadful books?”
“Yes, mademoiselle. What do you think of him?”
“I am not going to say what I think. His behaviour is infamous.”
“Ah, he is a wicked man then, mademoiselle?”
“Wicked is no word for it. Bey, you will keep your promise—you will burn these books?”
“I will, mademoiselle, I have given you my word; but it is like burning a piece of myself. What shall I do with nothing to read and all my pocket-money gone? for I have just sent to M. Karalampi what I owed him.”
“You shall have English books,” said Cecil, with sudden resolution. “You have no idea of the delightful books English boys read—books that will do you good instead of harm. We will read them together first, and when you know more English you shall read them by yourself. I can borrow one or two from the Residency until we can write home for more.”