"Chevalier," said he, "you're dreadfully puny. What's one to do with you?" I dropped my eyes and said nothing. Heaven knows I felt puny. "It's time you knew how to read and write. What are you blushing at?" "I _do_ know how to read," said I. My father stared. "Pray, who taught you?" "I learned in a book." "What book?" I looked up at my father before I answered. His eyes were bright, and there was a little flush in his face,--I hardly knew whether of pleasure or anger. I disengaged myself and went into the drawing-room, where I took from a cupboard in the wall an odd volume of Scarron's _Roman comique._ As I had to go through the house, I was absent some minutes. When I came back I found a stranger on the terrace. A young man in poor clothes, with a walking-stick, had come up from the avenue, and stood before my father, with his hat in his hand. At the farther end of the terrace was my aunt. She was sitting on the parapet, playing with a great black crow, which we kept in a cage in the dining-room window. I betook myself to my father's side with my book, and stood staring at our visitor. He was a dark-eyed, sunburnt young man, of about twenty-eight, of middle height, broad in the shoulders and short in the neck, with a slight lameness in one of his legs. He looked travel-stained and weary and pale. I remember there was something prepossessing in his being pale. I didn't know that the paleness came simply from his being horribly hungry. "In view of these facts," he said, as I came up, "I have ventured to presume upon the good-will of M. le Baron." My father sat back in his chair, with his legs apart and a hand on each knee and his waistcoat unbuttoned, as was usual after a meal. "Upon my word," he said, "I don't know what I can do for you. There's no place for you in my own household." The young man was silent a moment. "Has M. le Baron any children?" he asked, after a pause. "I have my son whom you see here." "May I inquire if M. le Chevalier is supplied with a preceptor?" My father glanced down at me. "Indeed, he seems to be," he cried. "What have you got there?" And he took my book. "The little rascal has M. Scarron for a teacher. This is his preceptor!" I blushed very hard, and the young man smiled. "Is that your only teacher?" he asked. "My aunt taught me to read," I said, looking round at her. "And did your aunt recommend this book?" asked my father. "My aunt gave me M. Plutarque," I said.