A Romance of Youth | Page 8

bear, which they chased through the apartment, lying in wait
for it behind armchairs, striking at it with sticks, and puffing out their
little cheeks with all their might to say "Boum!" imitating the report of
a gun. This hunting diversion completed the destruction of the old
furniture. Tranquil in the midst of the joyous uproar and disorder, the
engraver was busily at work finishing off the broad ribbon of the
Legion of Honor, and the large bullion epaulettes of the Prince
President, whom, as a suspicious republican and foreseeing the 'coup
d'etat', he detested with all his heart.
"Truly, Monsieur Violette," said Mother Gerard to the employe, when
he came for his little son upon his return from the office, and excused
himself for the trouble that the child must give his neighbors, "truly, I
assure you, he does not disturb us in the least. Wait a little before you
send him to school. He is very quiet, and if Maria did not excite him
so--upon my word, she is more of a boy than he--your Amedee would
always be looking at the pictures. My Louise hears him read every day
two pages in the Moral Tales, and yesterday he amused Gerard by
telling him the story of the grateful elephant. He can go to school

later--wait a little."
But M. Violette had decided to send Amedee to M. Batifol's. "Oh, yes,
as a day scholar, of course! It is so convenient; not two steps' distance.
This will not prevent little Amedee from seeing his friends often. He is
nearly seven years old, and very backward; he hardly knows how to
make his letters. One can not begin with children too soon," and much
more to the same effect.
This was the reason why, one fine spring day, M. Violette was ushered
into M. Batifol's office, who, the servant said, would be there directly.
M. Batifol's office was hideous. In the three bookcases which the
master of the house--a snob and a greedy schoolmaster--never opened,
were some of those books that one can buy upon the quays by the
running yard; for example, Laharpe's Cours de Litterature, and an
endless edition of Rollin, whose tediousness seems to ooze out through
their bindings. The cylindrical office-table, one of those masterpieces
of veneered mahogany which the Faubourg St. Antoine still keeps the
secret of making, was surmounted by a globe of the world.
Suddenly, through the open window, little Amedee saw the sycamore
in the yard. A young blackbird, who did not know the place, came and
perched for an instant only upon one of its branches.
We may fancy the tree saying to it:
"What are you doing here? The Luxembourg is only a short distance
from here, and is charming. Children are there, making mud-pies,
nurses upon the seats chattering with the military, lovers promenading,
holding hands. Go there, you simpleton!"
The blackbird flew away, and the university tree, once more solitary
and alone, drooped its dispirited leaves. Amedee, in his confused
childish desire for information, was just ready to ask why this sycamore
looked so morose, when the door opened and M. Batifol appeared. The
master of the school had a severe aspect, in spite of his almost
indecorous name. He resembled a hippopotamus clothed in an ample

black coat. He entered slowly and bowed in a dignified way to M.
Violette, then seated himself in a leather armchair before his papers,
and, taking off his velvet skull-cap, revealed such a voluminous round,
yellow baldness that little Amedee compared it with terror to the globe
on the top of his desk.
It was just the same thing! These two round balls were twins! There
was even upon M. Batifol's cranium an eruption of little red pimples,
grouped almost exactly like an archipelago in the Pacific Ocean.
"Whom have I the honor--?" asked the schoolmaster, in an unctuous
voice, an excellent voice for proclaiming names at the distribution of
prizes.
M. Violette was not a brave man. It was very foolish, but when the
senior clerk called him into his office to do some work, he was always
seized with a sort of stammering and shaking of the limbs. A person so
imposing as M. Batifol was not calculated to give him assurance.
Amedee was timid, too, like his father, and while the child, frightened
by the resemblance of the sphere to M. Batifol's bald head, was already
trembling, M. Violette, much agitated, was trying to think of something
to say, consequently, he said nothing of any account. However, he
ended by repeating almost the same things he had said to Mamma
Gerard: "My son is nearly seven years old, and very backward, etc."
The teacher appeared to listen to M. Violette with benevolent interest,
inclining his geographical cranium every few