“Once more, Dame Frimousset, allow me to speak. My young master must become a scholar, or something like it; it isn’t a question of eating, but of studying. What does he learn here with you? Does he even know how to read, to write or to figure?” “Faith, no,” said Nicole; “you never mentioned those things, and we didn’t think they were necessary, especially as Chérubin is going to be very rich; we didn’t think there was any need of his learning a trade.” “It isn’t a question of learning a trade, but of becoming a scholar.” “Ah yes! I understand, like the schoolmaster, who always stuffs his conversation full of words that nobody knows what they mean.” “That’s the very thing. Oh! if Chérubin could say some of those fine sentences that no one can understand, that would be splendid.--So you have a learned schoolmaster in this village, have you?” “To be sure,--Monsieur Gérondif.” “Gérondif! the name alone indicates a very learned man. Do you think he would consent to come to your house and give my young master lessons? For it is impossible for monsieur le marquis to go to school with all the young brats in the village.” “Why shouldn’t Monsieur Gérondif come here? He has educated two or three children for people who come to Gagny to pass the summer. Besides, he ain’t very well fixed, the dear man, and to earn a little money----” “There is no difficulty about that; I will pay him whatever he asks. Do you suppose that I could talk--that I could see this Monsieur Gérondif?” “That’s easy enough; Jacquinot will go and fetch him. It’s after five o’clock, so his school is over. Jacquinot, you will find the schoolmaster at Manon the baker’s, because he goes there every day to bake potatoes in her oven while it’s still hot.” “Go, my dear Jacquinot; bring me this scholar, and then we will empty a few bottles; I will treat Monsieur Gérondif too.” That promise roused Jacquinot, who went out, promising to make haste, and Jasmin asked Nicole: “Where is my young master?” “My _fieu_?” “My master, the young Marquis de Grandvilain. He is eleven years old now, my dear Nicole, and it seems to me that he is rather large for you to keep on calling him your _fieu_.” “Oh! bless my soul! habit--what do you expect?--He’s in the garden, under the plum trees.” “Alone?” “Oh no! Louise is with him, always with him. As if he could get along without her!” “Ah! is that the little girl who was left here, and whose parents you don’t know?” “Mon Dieu! yes.” “And you are still taking care of her?” “_Pardi!_ one child more. When there’s enough for three, there’s enough for four.” “That is what my father used to say, when he cribbed my share of breakfast; and in our house, on the contrary, when there was four of us, there was never enough for two.--Never mind, Dame Frimousset, you are an excellent woman, and when Chérubin leaves you, we will make you a handsome present.”