“That is nothing!” said Ida; “you must be a member!” and she saw herself already in a corner on a reception-day, modestly and quietly dressed, as befitted the wife of a man of letters. While they waited, however, they regaled themselves on the pears sent by “the kind friend, who was certainly the best and least suspicious of men.” D’Argenton found these pears, with their satiny skins, very delicious; but he ate them with so many expressions of discontent, and with so many little cutting remarks to Ida, that she spent much of her time in tears. Weeks and months passed on in this way without any other change in their lives than that which naturally grew out of an increasing estrangement between Moronval and his professor of literature. The principal, daily expecting a decision from Ida on the subject of the Review, suspected D’Argenton of influencing her against the project, and this belief he ended by expressing to the poet. One morning, Jack, who now went out but rarely, looked out of the windows with longing eyes. The spring sunshine was so bright, the sky so blue, that he longed for liberty and out-door life. The leaf-buds of the lilacs were swelling, and the flower-beds in the garden were gently upheaved, as if with the movements of invisible life. From the lane without came the sounds of children at play, and of singing-birds, all revelling in the sunshine. It was one of those days when every window is thrown open to let in the light and air, and to drive away all wintry shadows, all that blackness imparted by the length of the nights and the smoke of the fires. While Jack was longing for wings, the door-bell rang, and his mother entered in great haste and much agitated, although dressed with great care. She came for him to breakfast with her in the Bois, and would not bring him back until night. He must ask Moronval’s permission first; but as Ida brought the quarterly payment, you may imagine that permission was easily granted. “How jolly!” cried Jack; “how jolly!” and while his mother casually informed Moronval that M. d’Argenton had told her the evening previous that he was summoned to Auvergne, to his aunt who was dying, the boy ran to change his dress. On his way he met Mâdou, who, sad and lonely, was busy with his pails and brooms, and had not had time to find out that the air was soft and the sunshine warm. On seeing him, Jack had a bright idea. “O, mamma, if we could take Mâdou!” This permission was a little difficult to procure, so multifarious were the duties of the prince; but Jack was so persistent that kind Madame Moronval agreed for that day to assume the black boy’s place. “Mâdou! Mâdou!” cried the child, rushing toward him. “Quick, dress yourself and come out in the carriage with us; we are going to breakfast in the Bois!”