Mark was entertaining company when this uncomfortable letter arrived, in the person of Monsieur Lablache, the French master. It would be difficult to say what there was in the unpopular foreigner which attracted the Master of the Shell. It may have been a touch of Quixotic chivalry which led him to defy all the traditions of the place and offer his friendship to the best-hated person in Grandcourt; or it may have been a feeling that monsieur was hardly judged by his colleagues and pupils. However it was, during the short time the term had run, the two men had struck up an acquaintance which perplexed a great many spectators and displeased a great many more.
“I think you should be careful with Lablache,” said Grover to his friend. “Not that I know anything against him, but his reputation in the school is rather doubtful.”
“I suppose the reputation of all detention masters is doubtful,” said Railsford, laughing; “yours or mine would be if we had his work to do. But a man is innocent till he is proved guilty in England, isn’t he?”
“Quite so,” said Grover. “I don’t want to set you against him, for, as I say, I know nothing of him. All I mean, is, that you must be prepared to share a little of his unpopularity if you take up with him. That’s all.”
“I’ll take my chance of that,” said Railsford.
The first time Monsieur Lablache appeared in Railsford’s house, in response to an invitation from the new master to come and take coffee, there was considerable excitement in the house. The juniors considered their liberty was at stake, and hissed their master’s guest down the corridors. The Shell boys presumed still further, and raised a cry of “Turn him out!” and some even attempted to hustle him and trip him upon the stairs.
But the most curious incident of that untriumphal progress was when Munger, the cad of the Fifth, confronted monsieur in the lobby outside Railsford’s room with the shout, “He’s going to raise money on his old clothes at last!” The brutal words (for monsieur was very shabbily attired) were scarcely uttered when Railsford’s door suddenly opened and Munger was sent reeling across the lobby under a blow which echoed through the house. The Master of the Shell, white with rage, stood there with a look on his face which sent the few loiterers packing to their dens, and made Munger only sorry the wall against which he staggered did not open and let him through.
“Come here, you—you boy!”
Munger advanced, scarcely less pale than his master.
“Apologise to Monsieur Lablache—here, down on your knees—for behaving like a blackguard, and saying what you did!”