The first class consisted of five pupils including myself. There was, first of all, a great boy of eleven, rather a stupid fellow; he had the figure of a young man, and the knowledge of a mere baby. For three years he had been struggling with the rudiments of Latin; and he might, indeed, as well have struggled a little with the rudiments of his own language, for he could scarcely spell a single word correctly. His parents, who were rich, and very fond of travelling, did not know what to do with their stupid boy, so they left him to the care of Miss Porquet. He had the greatest aversion to books of all kinds, but he took the greatest pride in fine clothes, bright coloured neckties, etc.; and he wore straps to his trousers. This boy used to hide himself in corners to eat chocolate. He was given the nickname of _The Count_ by the other boys. He came up to me just as we were going into the playground, and said point blank, “My name is Arthur de la Croulle!” (he evidently thought this a very fine name) “and what is your name?” “My name is Paul Bicquerot,” I replied. He made a face of disgust, and gave me to understand that he thought Bicquerot a vulgar name. I never doubted but that he must be right; but I felt very sad, both on account of my parents and myself! “My father is very rich” (here he rattled the money in his pocket), “and yours?” he asked. [Illustration:Decoration] “I don’t know,” I answered. Another face of disgust, more disdainful than the first, followed my reply. He then placed the point of his first finger on the sleeve of my jacket, which was clean but not new, and he said, with a rude laugh, “Your parents are poor, or you would wear better clothes. I dislike poor people, and so does my mamma.” He then turned on his heel and went off to walk by himself at the other end of the playground. One would have thought that there was not one amongst us rich enough to be admitted to the honour of walking with him. As for me, I remained stupefied at what he had told me. I had never thought about whether my father and mother were rich or poor. I was rather inclined to think them rich, because they did not go about with a stick and wallet, asking for alms like old Father Chaumont, who came every Friday to beg at our door. The young Mr. de la Croulle put strange ideas into my head. ------------------ XXI. A FRIEND.—PRISONER’S BASE.