far from the Luxembourg, because he could see the top branches
of an acacia overtopping the wall, and the house had a cheerful
look.

Jean, as a little new boy (he was now eleven), was some weeks
before he shook off the shyness with which his schoolfellows'
loud voices and rough ways and his masters' ponderous gravity
had at first overwhelmed him. Little by little he grew used to
the work, and learned some of the tricks by means of which
punishments were avoided; his schoolfellows found him so inoffensive
they left off stealing his cap and initiated him in the game of
marbles. But he had little love for school-life, and when five
o'clock came, prayers were over and his satchel strapped, it
was with unfeigned delight he dashed out into the street basking
in the golden rays of the setting sun. In the intoxication of
freedom, he danced and leapt, seeing everything, men and horses,
carriages and shops, in a charmed light, and out of sheer joy of
life mumbling at his Aunt Servien's hand and arm, as she walked
home with him carrying the satchel and lunch-basket.

The evening was a peaceful time. Jean would sit drawing pictures
or dreaming over his copy-books at one end of the table where
Mademoiselle Servien had just cleared away the meal. His father
would be busy with a book. As age advanced he had acquired a
taste for reading, his favourites being La Fontaine's _Fables_,
Anquetil's _History of France_, and Voltaire's _Dictionnaire
Philosophique_, "to get the hang of things," as he put it.
His sister made fruitless efforts to distract his attention with
some stinging criticism of the neighbours or a question about
"our fat friend who had not come back," for she made a point