“It is preposterous!” he cried. “The very idea of making a mechanic of you is absurd. I will see your father at once.” The persons who saw the two pass through the street—the doctor gesticulating, and little Jack without a hat—concluded that some one must be ill at Aulnettes. This was not the case, however; for Dr. Rivals heard loud talking and laughing as he entered the house, and Charlotte, as she descended the stairs, was singing a bar from the last opera. “I wish to say a few words in private to you, sir,” said Mr. Rivals. “We are among friends,” answered D’Argenton, “and have no secrets. You have something to say, I suppose, in regard to Jack. These gentlemen know all that I have done for him, my motives, and the peculiar circumstances of the case.” “But, my friend “—Charlotte said, timidly, fearing the explanation that was forthcoming. “Go on, doctor,” interrupted the poet, sternly. “Jack has just told me that you have apprenticed him to the Forge at Indret. This, of course, is a mistake on his part.” “Not in the least, sir.” “But you can have no conception of the child’s nature, nor of his constitution. It is his health, his very existence, with which you are trifling. I assure you, madame,” he continued, turning toward Charlotte, “that your child could not endure such a life. I am speaking now simply of his physique. Mentally and spiritually, he is equally unfitted for it.” “You are mistaken, doctor,” interrupted D’Argenton; “I know the boy better than you possibly can. He is only fit for manual labor, and now that I offer him the opportunity of earning his daily bread in this way, of exercising the one talent he may have, he goes to you and makes complaints of me.” Jack tried to excuse himself. His friend bade him be silent, and continued,— “He did not complain to me. He simply informed me of your decision. I told him to come at once to his mother, and to you, and entreat you to reconsider your determination, and not degrade him in this way.” “I deny the degradation,” shouted Labassandre. “Manual labor does not degrade a man. The Saviour of the world was a carpenter.” “That is true,” murmured Charlotte, before whose eyes at once floated a vision of her boy as the infant Jesus in a procession on some feast-day. “Do not listen to such utter nonsense, dear madame,” cried the doctor, exasperated out of all patience. “To make your boy a mechanic is to separate from him forever. You might send him to the other end of the world, and yet he would not be so far from you. You will see when it is too late; the day will come that you will blush for him, when he will appear before you, not as the loving, tender son, but humble and servile, as holding a social position far inferior to your own.” Jack, who had not yet said a word, dismayed at this vivid picture of the future, started up from his seat in the corner. “I will not be a mechanic!” he said, in a firm voice. “O, Jack!” cried his mother, in consternation.