CHAPTER 4. ANArKH.
"I have lost my copy books.
"Where are you in your Latin humanities?"
"My copy of Horace has been stolen."
"Where are you in Aristotle?"
"I' faith! brother what father of the church is it, who says
that the errors of heretics have always had for their lurking
place the thickets of Aristotle's metaphysics? A plague on
Aristotle! I care not to tear my religion on his metaphysics."
"Young man," resumed the archdeacon, "at the king's last
entry, there was a young gentleman, named Philippe de
Comines, who wore embroidered on the housings of his horse
this device, upon which I counsel you to meditate: Qui non
laborat, non manducet."
The scholar remained silent for a moment, with his finger
in his ear, his eyes on the ground, and a discomfited mien.
All at once he turned round to Claude with the agile quickness
of a wagtail.
"So, my good brother, you refuse me a sou parisis, wherewith
to buy a crust at a baker's shop?"
"Qui non laborat, non manducet."
At this response of the inflexible archdeacon, Jehan hid his
head in his hands, like a woman sobbing, and exclaimed with
an expression of despair: "Orororororoi."
"What is the meaning of this, sir?" demanded Claude, surprised
at this freak.
"What indeed!" said the scholar; and he lifted to Claude
his impudent eyes into which he had just thrust his fists in
order to communicate to them the redness of tears; "'tis
Greek! 'tis an anapaest of AEschylus which expresses grief
And here he burst into a laugh so droll and violent that it
made the archdeacon smile. It was Claude's fault, in fact:
why had he so spoiled that child?