in the following october i became one of miss porquet’s pupils. nothing remarkable occurred on my entrance into the school except that my cheeks became crimson and my nose very white while miss porquet put me through a sort of preparatory examination.

all the other scholars stared at me, as was only natural; and i could not help thinking, as they eagerly listened to the answers i made to miss porquet’s questions, that they were laughing at me, which indeed i believe to have been the case.

miss porquet declared herself satisfied with my replies, and told me that i should at once go into the first class, which, as well as the second, was under her own tuition. the third class was composed of children of various ages, from boys of seven to babies of three.

the third class was taken care of, petted, scolded, and taught and amused by two of miss porquet’s sisters. now those babies in the third class were the very children that i dreaded most, their astonishment at my unfortunate nose was so unfeigned that it seemed like impudence.

“a great boy of eleven, rather a stupid fellow.”

the first class consisted of five pupils including myself. there was, first of all, a great boy of eleven, rather a stupid fellow; he had the figure of a young man, and the knowledge of a mere baby. for three years he had been struggling with the rudiments of latin; and he might, indeed, as well have struggled a little with the rudiments of his own language, for he could scarcely spell a single word correctly. his parents, who were rich, and very fond of travelling, did not know what to do with their stupid boy, so they left him to the care of miss porquet.

he had the greatest aversion to books of all kinds, but he took the greatest pride in fine clothes, bright coloured neckties, etc.; and he wore straps to his trousers. this boy used to hide himself in corners to eat chocolate. he was given the nickname of the count by the other boys.

he came up to me just as we were going into the playground, and said point blank, “my name is arthur de la croulle!” (he evidently thought this a very fine name) “and what is your name?”

“my name is paul bicquerot,” i replied. he made a face of disgust, and gave me to understand that he thought bicquerot a vulgar name. i never doubted but that he must be right; but i felt very sad, both on account of my parents and myself!

“my father is very rich” (here he rattled the money in his pocket), “and yours?” he asked.

“i don’t know,” i answered.

another face of disgust, more disdainful than the first, followed my reply. he then placed the point of his first finger on the sleeve of my jacket, which was clean but not new, and he said, with a rude laugh, “your parents are poor, or you would wear better clothes. i dislike poor people, and so does my mamma.”

he then turned on his heel and went off to walk by himself at the other end of the playground. one would have thought that there was not one amongst us rich enough to be admitted to the honour of walking with him.

as for me, i remained stupefied at what he had told me. i had never thought about whether my father and mother were rich or poor. i was rather inclined to think them rich, because they did not go about with a stick and wallet, asking for alms like old father chaumont, who came every friday to beg at our door.

the young mr. de la croulle put strange ideas into my head.