Doctor Rivals soon discovered that Jack was by no means wanting in intelligence, and determined, with his natural kindness of heart, to himself supply the great deficiencies in education by giving him an hour’s instruction daily. Those of my readers who are in the habit of enjoying a siesta after dinner, will appreciate the sacrifice made by the old man, when I add that it was this precise time that he now freely gave to the little boy, who, in his turn, gratefully applied himself with his whole heart to his lessons. Cécile was almost always present, and was as pleased as Jack himself when her grandfather, examining the copy-book, said, “Well done!” To his mother, Jack said nothing of his labors; he determined to prove to her at some future day that the diagnosis of the poet had been incorrect. This concealment was rendered very easy, as the mother grew hourly more and more indifferent to her child, and more completely absorbed in D’Argenton. The boy’s comings and goings were almost unnoticed. His seat at the table was often vacant, but no one asked where he had been. New guests filled the board, for D’Argenton kept open house; yet the poet was by no means generous in his hospitality, and when Charlotte would say to him, timidly, “I am out of money, my friend,” he would reply by a wry face and the word, “Already?” But vanity was stronger than avarice, and the pleasure of patronizing his old friends, the Bohemians, with whom he had formerly lived, carried the day. They all knew that he had a pleasant home, that the air was good and the table better; consequently, one would say to another, “Who wants to go to Etiolles to-night?” They came in droves. Poor Charlotte was in despair. “Madame Archambauld, are there eggs?—is there any game? Company has come, and what shall we give them?” “Anything will suit, madame, I fancy, for they look half starved,” said the old woman, astonished at the unkempt, unshorn, and hungry aspect of her master’s friends. D’Argenton delighted in showing them over the house; and then they dispersed to the fields, to the river-side, and into the forest, as happy and frolicsome as old horses turned out to grass. In the fresh country, in the full sunlight, those rusty coats and worn faces seemed more rusty and more worn than when seen in Paris; but they were happy, and D’Argenton radiant. No one ventured to dispute his eternal “I think,” and “I know.” Was he not the master of the house, and had he not the key of the wine cellar? Charlotte, too, was well pleased. It was to her inconsequent nature and Bohemian instincts a renewal of the excitement of her old life. She was flattered and admired, and, while remaining true to her poet, was pleased to show him that she had not lost her power of charming.