must go without their music because our lord was out plucking dandelions."
Jacques did not show anger, though Gilbert expected him to do so, for he was used to this manner. The soup was followed by a chunk of boiled beef, on a delft plate grooved with knife points. The host served Gilbert scantily, as Therese was watching, took the same sized piece and passed the plate to his Xantippe.
She handed a slice of bread to the guest. It was so small that Jacques blushed, but he waited until she had helped him and herself, when he took the loaf from her. He handed it to Gilbert and bade him cut off according to his wants.
"Thank you," said Gilbert, as some beans in butter were served, "but I have no longer any hunger. I never eat but one dish. And I drink only water."
Jacques had a little wine for himself.
"You must see about the young man's bed," said the latter, putting down the bottle. "He must be tired."
Therese dropped her fork and stared at the speaker.
"Sleep here? you must be mad. Bring people home to sleep—I expect you want to give up your own bed to them. You must be off your head. Is it keeping a lodging-house you are about? If this is so, don't look to me! get a cook and servants. It is bad enough to be yours, without waiting on Tom, Dick and Harry."
"Therese, listen to me," replied Jacques, with his grave, even voice; "it is for one night only. This young man has never set foot in Paris, and comes under my safe-conduct. I am not going to have him go to an inn, though he has to have my own bed, look you."
Therese understood that struggle was out of the question for the present and she changed her tactics by fighting for Gilbert, but as an ally who would stab him in the back at the first chance.
"I daresay you know all about him, or you would not have brought him home, and he ought to stay here. I will shake up some kind of a bed in your study among the papers."
"No, no, a study is not fit for a sleeping-room; a light might set fire to the writings."
"Which would be no loss," sneered Therese.
"There is the garret; the room with a fine outlook over such gardens as are scarce in Paris. Have no anxiety, Therese; the young man will not be a burden; he will earn his own living. Take a candle and follow me."
Therese sighed, but she was mastered. Gilbert gravely rose and followed his benefactor. On the landing Gilbert saw drinking water in a tank.
"Is water dear in town?" he inquired.
"They charge for it; but any way, bread and water are two things which man has no right to refuse to his fellow-man."
"But at Taverney, water ran freely, and the luxury of the poor is cleanliness."
"Take as much as you like, my friend," said Master Jacques.
Gilbert filled a crock and followed the host, who was astonished at so young a man allying the firmness of the people with the instinct of the aristocratic.
Chapter XXVIII.
In The Loft.
To tell the truth, the loft where Jacques stowed his guest was not fit for habitation. The mattress was on the floor and the chief article of furniture. Rats had pulled about and gnawed a heap of yellowed papers. On clotheslines across the attic were paper bags in which were drying beans, herbs and household linen.
"It is not nice to look upon," apologized the host, "but sleep and darkness make the sumptuous palace and the meanest cottage much alike. Sleep as youth can do, and nothing will prevent you thinking you slept in the royal palace. But mind you do not set the house afire. We will talk over matters in the morning."
"Good-night and hearty thanks," said Gilbert, left alone in the garret.
With all the precaution recommended, he took up the light and made the rounds of the room. As the newspapers and pamphlets were tied in bales he did not open them; but the bean bags were made of printed pages of a book, which caught his eye with the lines. One sack, knocked off the line by his head, burst on the floor, and in trying to replace the beans, he fell to reading the wrappers. It was a page from the love of a poor youth for a lovely and fashionable lady named Lady Warrens. Gilbert was congratulating himself on having the whole night to read this love story on the wrappers when the candle went out and left him in gloom. He was ready to weep with rage. He dropped the papers on the heap of beans and flung himself on his couch where he slept deeply in spite of his disappointment.
He was roused only by the grating of the lock. It was bright day; Gilbert saw his host gently enter.
"Good-morning," he muttered, with the red of shame on his cheeks as he saw Jacques staring at the beans and emptied bags.
"Did you sleep soundly?"
"Ye-es."
"Nay, are you not a sleep-walker?"
"Alas, I see why you say that. I sat up reading till the candle was burnt out, from the first sheet on which my eyes fell so greatly interesting me. Do you, who know so much, know to what lovely novel those pages belong?"
"I do not know, but as I notice the word 'Confessions' on the headline, I should think it was Memoirs."
"Oh, no, the man so speaking is not doing so of himself; the avowals are too frank—the opinions too impartial."
"I think you are wrong," said the old gentleman quickly. "The author wanted to set an example of showing himself to his fellows as heaven created him."
"Do you know the author?"
"The writer is Jean Jacques Rousseau. These are stray pages out of his 'Confessions.'"
"So this unknown, poor, obscure youth, almost begging his way afoot on the highroads, was the man who was to write 'Emile' and the 'Social Contract?'"
"Yes—or, rather no!" said the other with unspeakable sadness. "This author is the man disenchanted with life, glory, society and almost with heaven; but the other Rousseau, Lady Warrens', was the youth entering life by the same door as Aurora comes into the world; youth with his joys and hopes. An abyss divides the two Rousseaus thirty years wide."
The old gentleman shook his head, let his arms sadly droop, and appeared to sink into deep musing.
"So," went on Gilbert, "it is possible for the meanly born like Rousseau to win the love of a mighty and beautiful lady? This is calculated to drive those mad who have lifted their eyes to those above their sphere."
"Are you in love and do you see some likeness between your case and Rousseau's?" asked the old gentleman.
Gilbert blushed without answering the question.
"But he won, because he was Rousseau," he observed. "Yet, were I to feel a spark of his flame of genius, I should aspire to the star, and seek to wear it even though——"
"You had to commit a crime?"
Jacques
