"Quite so, M. le chevalier," I replied; "will you tell me what is the correct way for inspectors and sub-inspectors?" "Oblong, monsieur, oblong." "You will pardon my ignorance, monsieur; I know what an oblong is in theory, but I do not yet know what it is in practice." "See...." And M. de Broval condescended willingly to give me the lesson in things oblong I had asked of him. "There!" he said, when the letter was folded. "Thank you, monsieur," I replied. "Now, monsieur, the envelope?" he said. I had never made envelopes, except for the rare petitions I had written for my mother, and once on my own account in General Foy's office, so I was still more ignorant about the making of envelopes than about the folding. I took a half-sheet of paper in my left hand, a pair of scissors in my right hand, and I began to cut the sheet. M. le Chevalier de Broval uttered a mingled cry of surprise and terror. "Oh! good Lord!" he said, "what are you going to do?" "Why, M. le chevalier, I am going to make the envelope you asked me to make." "With scissors?" "Yes." "First learn this, monsieur: paper should not be cut, it should be torn." I listened with all attention. "Oh!" I exclaimed. "It should be torn," repeated M. de Broval; "and then in this case there is no need even to tear the paper, which perhaps you do not realise either?" "No, monsieur, I do not." "You will learn.... It only wants an English envelope." "Ah! an English envelope?" "You do not know how to make an English envelope?" "I do not even know what it is, M. le chevalier." "I will show you. As a general rule, monsieur, square letters and square envelopes are for ministers, for princes and for kings." "Right, M. le chevalier; I will remember." "You are sure?" "Yes." "Good.... And for heads of departments, chief assistants, inspectors and sub-inspectors, oblong letters and English envelopes." I repeated, "Oblong letters and English envelopes." "Yes, yes, of course.... There, that is what we call an English envelope." "Thank you, monsieur." "Now the seal.... Ernest, will you light me a taper?" Ernest hastened to bring us the lighted taper; and now, I confess to my shame, my confusion increased: I had never hitherto sealed my letters except with wafers--that is to say, when I had sealed them. I took the wax in so awkward a fashion, I heated it in such a queer way, I blew it out so quickly, for fear of burning the paper, that this time I excited pity rather than impatience in the breast of M. de Broval. "Oh! my friend," he said, "have you really never even sealed a letter?" "Never, monsieur," I replied. "Who was there for me to write to, buried away as I have been in a little country town?" This humble confession touched M. de Broval. "See," he said, heating the wax, "this is how one seals a letter."