CHAPTER XXVIII.



In the meantime, alas! I had to spend many long and wearisome hours in
going through the form of studying my lessons.

Topffer, who is the only real poet of school-boys, that genus so
misunderstood, divides us into three groups: first, those who are in
boarding schools; second, those who do all their studying at home at a
window which overlooks a gloomy courtyard containing a twisted old fig
tree; third, those who also study at home in a bright little room whose
window commands a view of the street.

I belonged to that third class whom Topffer considers extraordinarily
privileged, and as likely, in consequence, to grow up into happy men.
My room was upon the first floor, and it opened into the street; it had
white curtains, and its green paper was embellished with bouquets of
white roses. Near the window was my work desk, and above it, upon a
book-shelf, was my very much neglected library.

In fine weather I always opened this window, but I kept my venetian
blinds half-closed, so that I might look out without having my idleness
seen, and reported by a meddlesome neighbor. Morning and evening I
glanced to the end of the quiet street that stretched its sunny length
between the white country houses and lost itself among the old trees
growing beyond the ramparts. I could see from there the occasional