“The bed is mine—my very own—I will not have it touched;” but a certain feeling of shame withheld him, and he went from room to room looking for his mother, when suddenly his arm was seized. “What! Master Jack, are you no longer at the school?” It was Constant, his mother’s maid—Constant, in her Sunday dress, wearing pink ribbons, and with an air of great importance. “Where is mamma?” asked the child, in a low voice, a voice that was so pitiful and troubled that the woman’s heart was touched. “Your mother is not here, my poor child,” she said. “But where is she? And what are all these people doing?” “They have come for the auction. But come with me to the kitchen, Master Jack, we can talk better there.” There was quite a party in the kitchen,—the old cook, Augustin, and several servants in the neighborhood. They were drinking champagne around the same table where Jack’s future had been one evening decided. The child’s arrival made quite a sensation. He was caressed by them all, for the servants were really attached to his kind-hearted mother. As he was afraid that they would take him back to the Institute, Jack took good care not to say that he had run away, and merely spoke of an imaginary permission he had received to enable him to visit his mother. “She is not here, Master Jack,” said Constant, “and I really do not know whether I ought—” Then, interrupting herself, Constant exclaimed, “O! it is too bad. I cannot keep this child from his mother!” Then she informed little Jack that madame was at Etiolles. The child repeated the name over and over again to himself. “Is it far from here?” he asked. “Eight good leagues,” answered Augustin. But the cook disputed this point; and then followed an animated discussion as to the route to be taken to reach _Etiolles_. Jack listened eagerly, for he had already decided to attempt the journey alone and on foot. “Madame lives in a pretty little cottage just at the edge of a wood,” said Constant. Jack understood by this time which side of Paris he should go out. This and the name of the village were the two distinct ideas he had. The distance did not frighten him. “I can walk all night,” he said to himself, “even if my legs are little.” Then he spoke aloud. “I must go now,” he said, “I must go back to school.” One question, however, burned on his lips. Was Argenton at Etiolles? Should he find this powerful barrier between his mother and himself? He dared not ask Constant, however. Without understanding the truth precisely, he yet felt very keenly that this was not the best side of his mother’s life, and he avoided all mention of it. The servants said “good-bye,” the coachman shook hands with him, and then the boy found himself in the vestibule among a bustling crowd. He did not linger in this chaos, for the house had no longer any interest for him, but hurried into the street, eager to start on the journey that would end by placing him with his mother.