Meanwhile he was in Paris, and every morning early he could be seen with
Jacques riding up the Champs Elysee and out to the Bois de Boulogne.
Every afternoon at three he sat for "Monmouth" or the "King of Ys" with
his horse in his uncle's garden.

Ian Belward might have lived in a fashionable part; he preferred the
Latin Quarter, with incursions into the other at fancy. Gaston lived for
three days in the Boulevard Haussman, and then took apartments, neither
expensive nor fashionable, in a quiet street. He was surrounded by
students and artists, a few great men and a host of small men:
Collarossi's school here and Delacluse's there: models flitting in and
out of the studios in his court-yard, who stared at him as he rode, and
sought to gossip with Jacques--accomplished without great difficulty.

Jacques was transformed. A cheerful hue grew on his face. He had been
an exile, he was now at home. His French tongue ran, now with words in
the patois of Normandy, now of Brittany; and all with the accent of
French Canada, an accent undisturbed by the changes and growths of
France. He gossiped, but no word escaped him which threw any light on
his master's history.

Soon, in the Latin Quarter, they were as notable as they had been at
Ridley Court or in London. On the Champs Elysee side people stared at
the two: chiefly because of Gaston's splendid mount and Jacques's strange
broncho. But they felt that they were at home. Gaston's French was not
perfect, but it was enough for his needs. He got a taste of that freedom
which he had handed over to the dungeons of convention two years before.
He breathed. Everything interested him so much that the life he had led
in England seemed very distant.