Part 12 (2/2)
Bijou laughed heartily. ”Are you not afraid of tiring yourself with working so hard as all that?”
”If he continues at the rate he is going,” said M. de Jonzac, ”he will never take his degree, will he, Monsieur Giraud?”
”I am afraid not, monsieur, I am very much afraid not,” replied the tutor gently. ”Pierrot is very intelligent, but so thoughtless, and so absent-minded always, especially since our arrival here!”
”Oh! not any more than you are, at any rate, Monsieur Giraud,”
retorted Pierrot. ”It's quite true! I don't know what's the matter with you, but your thoughts are always wool-gathering, and you don't go in for books as you did before. Why, even _maths_ you don't seem so mad on--you don't do anything now except look after me, and go off writing poetry.”
”You write poetry, Monsieur Giraud?” asked Madame de Rueille, entering the room, followed by Jean and Henry.
”Oh, madame,” stuttered the poor fellow, not knowing where to put himself nor what to say, ”I write some sort, but it is--not exactly poetry.”
”You write charming poetry!” said Jean, and then, as the young tutor looked at him in astonishment, he continued: ”Yes, you write very good poetry--and then you lose it; little Marcel has just picked up these verses and brought them to me.”
He smiled as he held out to Giraud a folded paper, the writing on which was invisible.
”Let me see them!” said Bijou, holding out her hand.
”Oh, mademoiselle!” cried the tutor, stepping forward, terrified, ”please do not insist!” And then in order to explain his own agitation, he added: ”They are wretched verses; please let me put them out of sight. I will show you some others which are more worth looking at.”
Bijou's hand was still held out, and she stood there waiting, looking very frank and innocent.
”Oh, please, Jean, let me see these all the same; that need not prevent M. Giraud writing some more that we can see, too.”
”I cannot show you a letter,” replied Jean, handing the paper to the distracted tutor, ”and this is a kind of letter, and belongs to the person who wrote it.”
”Thank you,” stammered out Giraud, thoroughly abashed, ”I am much obliged, monsieur.” And he at once put the troublesome sc.r.a.p of paper into his pocket out of sight.
”Pierrot!” called out the marchioness, ”give me 'La Bruyere'--you know where it is?”
”What's that?” asked the youth, winking.
”'La Bruyere'?”
”You see,” remarked M. de Jonzac, looking at his son with an expression of despair on his face, ”he does not even know who 'La Bruyere' is!”
Pierrot protested energetically. ”Yes, I do know who he is, and the proof is, I can tell you--it's a blue-back.”
”A what?” asked the marchioness.
”A blue-back, aunt.”
”Explain to your aunt,” interposed M. Giraud, ”that you have a most objectionable mania for speaking of books by the colour of the binding rather than by their t.i.tle.”
”By George!” exclaimed M. de Jonzac, annoyed, ”he never by any chance opens one. He is an absolute ignoramus; just to think that he will soon be seventeen!”
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