“My! doesn’t he box my ears when he feels like it! but then, after all, he’s such fun; he’s such good company! He says he pays himself that way for having taught me to read and write.” “Can you read?” asked the count. “Yah, I should think so, Monsieur le comte, and fine writing too--just as true as we’ve got that otter.” “Read that,” said the count, giving him a newspaper. “The Qu-o-ti-dienne,” read Mouche, hesitating only three times. Every one, even the abbe, laughed. “Why do you make me read that newspaper?” cried Mouche, angrily. “My grandpa says it is made up to please the rich, and everybody knows later just what’s in it.” “The child is right, general,” said Blondet; “and he makes me long to see my hoaxing friend again.” Mouche understood perfectly that he was posing for the amusement of the company; the pupil of Pere Fourchon was worthy of his master, and he forthwith began to cry. “How can you tease a child with bare feet?” said the countess. “And who thinks it quite natural that his grandfather should recoup himself for his education by boxing his ears,” said Blondet. “Tell me, my poor little fellow, have you really caught an otter?” “Yes, madame; as true as that you are the prettiest lady I have seen, or ever shall see,” said the child, wiping his eyes. “Then show me the otter,” said the general. “Oh M’sieur le comte, my grandpa has hidden it; but it was kicking still when we were at work at the rope-walk. Send for my grandpa, please; he wants to sell it to you himself.” “Take him into the kitchen,” said the countess to Francois, “and give him his breakfast, and send Charles to fetch Pere Fourchon. Find some shoes, and a pair of trousers and a waistcoat for the poor child; those who come here naked must go away clothed.” “May God bless you, my beautiful lady,” said Mouche, departing. “M’sieur le cure may feel quite sure that I’ll keep the things and wear ‘em fete-days, because you give ‘em to me.” Emile and Madame Montcornet looked at each other with some surprise, and seemed to say to the abbe, “The boy is not a fool!” “It is quite true, madame,” said the abbe after the child had gone, “that we cannot reckon with Poverty. I believe it has hidden excuses of which God alone can judge,--physical excuses, often congenital; moral excuses, born in the character, produced by an order of things that are often the result of qualities which, unhappily for society, have no vent. Deeds of heroism performed upon the battle-field ought to teach us that the worst scoundrels may become heroes. But here in this place you are living under exceptional circumstances; and if your benevolence is not controlled by reflection and judgment you run the risk of supporting your enemies.” “Our enemies?” exclaimed the countess. “Cruel enemies,” said the general, gravely.