The doctor alighted from the hackney coach at the college gate, and made a sign to Billot to follow him.
As to Pitou, he discreetly remained in the coach.
Sebastien was still in the infirmary; the principal in person, on Doctor Gilbert’s being announced, conducted him thither.
Billot, who, although not a very acute observer, well knew the character of both father and son,—Billot attentively observed the scene which was passing before his eyes.
Weak, irritable, and nervous, as the boy had shown himself in the moment of despair, he evinced an equal degree of tranquillity and reserve in the moment of joy.
On perceiving his father he turned pale, and words failed him. His lips quivered, and then he ran and threw his arms round his father’s neck, uttering a cry of joy, which resembled a cry of grief, and then held him silently clasped within his arms.
The doctor responded as silently to this mute pressure; only, after having embraced his son, he looked at him with an expression that was more sorrowful than joyous.
A more skilful observer than Billot would have said that some misfortune or some crime existed in the relations between that youth and that man.
The youth was less reserved in his conduct towards Billot. When he could observe any one excepting his father, who had in the first moment engrossed all his attention, he ran to the good farmer, and threw his arms round his neck, saying,—
“You are a worthy man, Monsieur Billot; you have kept your promise to me, and I thank you for it.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Billot, “and it was not without some trouble, I can assure you, Monsieur Sebastien. Your father was very nicely and safely locked up, and it was necessary to do a tolerable deal of damage before we could get him out.”
“Sebastien,” inquired the doctor with some anxiety, “you are in good health?”
“Yes, Father,” replied the young man, “although you find me here in the infirmary.”
Gilbert smiled.
“I know why it was you were brought here,” said he.
The boy smiled in his turn.
“Have you everything you require here?” continued the doctor.
“Everything—thanks to you.”
“I shall then, my dear boy, still recommend to you the same, the only line of conduct,—study assiduously.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I know that to you the word ‘study’ is not a vain and monotonous word; if I believed it to be so, I would no longer say it.”
“Father, it is not for me to reply to you on that head. It is the province of Monsieur Bérardier, our excellent principal.”
The doctor turned towards Monsieur Bérardier, who made a sign that he had something to say to him.
“I will speak to you again in a moment, Sebastien,” said the doctor.
And he went over to the principal.
“Sir,” said Sebastien, with anxious feeling, to Billot, “can anything unfortunate have happened to Pitou? The poor lad is not with you.”
“He is at the door in a hackney coach,” replied Billot.
“Father,” said Sebastien, “will you allow Monsieur Billot to fetch Pitou to me? I should be very glad to see him.”
Gilbert gave an affirmative nod; Billot left the room “What is it you would say to me?” inquired Gilbert of the Abbé Bérardier.
“I wished to tell you, sir, that it is not study that you should recommend to the young lad, but, on the contrary, to amuse himself.”
“And on what account, good abbé?”
“Yes, he is an excellent young man, whom everybody here loves as a son or as a brother, but—”
The abbé paused.
“But what?” cried Gilbert, with anxiety.
“But if great care be not taken, Monsieur Gilbert, there is something that will kill him.”
“And what is that?” said Gilbert.
“The study which you so strongly recommend to him.”
“Study?”
“Yes, sir, study. If you could but see him seated at his desk, his arms crossed, poring over his dictionary, with eyes fixed—”
“Studying, or dreaming?” asked Gilbert.
“Studying, sir; endeavoring to find a good expression the antique style, the Greek or Latin form—seeking for it for hours together; and see! even at this very moment!—look at him!”