make a bookbinder of him? ... Oh! I know why; you needn't tell
me,--out of ambition! Well, then! some day your son will die of
starvation, blushing for your folly--and a good job too! The State!
you say, the State! it's the only word you can put your tongues
to. But it's cluttered up, the State is! Take the Treasury; you
send us graduates who can't spell; what d'ye expect us to do
with all these loafers?"

He drew his hand across his hot forehead. Then pointing a finger
to show he was addressing Jane:

"At any rate, you write a good hand?"

Monsieur Servien answered for his son, saying it was legible.

"Legible! Legible!" repeated the great man--throwing his fat
hands about. "A copying clerk must write an even hand. Young man,
do you write an even hand?"

Jean said he did not know, his handwriting might have been spoilt,
he had never thought very much about it. His questioner frowned:

"That's very wrong," he blustered; "and I dare swear you young
fellows make a silly affectation of not writing decently.... I
may have a bit of influence at the Ministry, but you mustn't
ask me to do impossibilities."

The bookbinder shrunk back with a scared glance. _He_ certainly
did not look the man to ask impossibilities.