"Because you yourself said that your mother sold you as my mother sold me to Père Paragot."
Whereupon it suddenly occurred to me that as far as retentiveness of memory was concerned, Blanquette was not such a fool as in my arrogance I had set her down to be. I was going to retort that his magnificence in purchasing me proved him a personage of high order, but as I quickly reflected that the same argument might apply to the rank of the contemned Père Paragot, I refrained. A silence ensuing, I uncomfortably resolved to study my master with a view to acquiring his skill in repartee.
"But what does he do, the Master?" enquired Blanquette.
"Do? What do you mean?"
"How does he earn his living?"
"That shows you know nothing about him," I cried triumphantly. "King's sons do not earn their living. They have got it already. Haven't you ever read that in books?"
"I can read and write, but I don't read books," sighed Blanquette. "I am not clever. You will have to teach me."
"This is the book I am reading," said I, taking the "Récits des Temps Mérovingiens" from my pocket.
Again Blanquette sighed. "You must be very clever, Asticot."
"Not at all," said I modestly, but I felt that it was nice of Blanquette to realise the intellectual gulf between us. "It is the Master who has taught me all I know." I spoke, God wot, as if my knowledge would have burst through the covers of an Encyclopædia—"Three years ago I could not speak a word of French. Fancy. And now——"