It was from Henri that Jules picked up whatever French he learned, and
it was from Henri also that he had received the one awkward caress, and
the only one, that his desolate little heart had known in all the five
loveless years that he had been with them.

A few months ago Brossard had put him out in the field to keep the goats
from straying away from their pasture, two stubborn creatures, whose
self-willed wanderings had brought many a scolding down on poor Jules's
head. To-night he was unusually unfortunate, for added to the weary
chase they had led him was this stern command that he should go to bed
without his supper.

He was about to pass into the house, shivering and hungry, when Henri
put his head out at the window. "Brossard," he called, "there isn't
enough bread for supper; there's just this dry end of a loaf. You should
have bought as I told you, when the baker's cart stopped here
this morning."

Brossard slowly measured the bit of hard, black bread with his eye, and,
seeing that there was not half enough to satisfy the appetites of two
hungry men, he grudgingly drew a franc from his pocket.

"Here, Jules," he called. "Go down to the bakery, and see to it that
thou art back by the time that I have milked the goats, or thou shalt
go to bed with a beating, as well as supperless. Stay!" he added, as
Jules turned to go. "I have a mind to eat white bread to-night instead
of black. It will cost an extra son, so be careful to count the change.
It is only once or so in a twelvemonth," he muttered to himself as an
excuse for his extravagance.