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People make lists of the books he might have written. Lucky author! M. Flamaran is a professor of the old school, stern, and at examination a terror to the candidates. Clad in cap and gown, he would reject his own son. Nothing will serve. Recommendations defeat their object.
M. Flamaran and I sat down together on the bank, our feet resting on the soft sand strewn with dead branches. Before us spread the little pool I have mentioned, a slight widening of the stream of the Bievre, once a watering-place for cattle. The sun, now at high noon, massed the trees' shadow close around their trunks. The unbroken surface of the water reflected its rays back in our eyes.
No authority that I know of throws any light on the subject. Still one hope remains: M. Flamaran. He knows so many things, he might even know this. M. Flamaran comes from the south-Marseilles, I think. He is not a specialist in Roman law; but he is encyclopedic, which comes to the same thing. He became known while still young, and deservedly; few lawyers are so clear, so safe, so lucid.
For a long time I used to think that these qualities stood them in lieu of virtues. That was a slander; there are plenty of Parisiennes endowed with every virtue; I even know a few who are angels." At this point, M. Flamaran looked me straight in the eyes, and, as I made no reply, he added: "I know one, at least: Jeanne Charnot. Are you listening?" "Yes, Monsieur Flamaran." "Isn't she a paragon?"
The very last time I saw Monsieur Flamaran he let fall 'my very good friend Charnot, of the 'Inscriptions. They are friends. And I am in a pretty situation; threatened with I don't know what by the Library for the keeper told me positively that this was all 'for the present' but not for the future; threatened to be disgraced in my tutor's eyes; and all because this learned man's temper is upset.
"Hey? Not important enough? All new questions are important. Charnot specializes on coins. Coins and costumes are all one. I will write to tell him you are coming." "I beg, sir " "Nonsense; Nonsense; I'll write him this very evening. He will be delighted to see you. I know him well, you understand. He is like me; he likes industrious young men." M. Flamaran held out his hand. "Good-by, young man.
At a turn of the road M. Flamaran suddenly pulled up, looked all around him, and drew a deep breath. "Hallo, Jupille! My good sir, where are you taking us? If I can believe my eyes, this is the Chestnut Knoll, down yonder is Plessis Piquet, and we are two miles from the station and the seven o'clock train!" There was no denying it.
It is Monsieur Charnot, of the Institute, who was reading the Early Text." "Merciful Heavens!" I ejaculated, as I went back to my seat; "this must be the man of whom my tutor spoke, the other day! Monsieur Flamaran belongs to the Academy of Moral and Political Science, the other to the Institute of Inscriptions and the Belles-Lettres. Charnot? Yes, I have those two syllables in my ear.
Three cheers were given, followed by clapping of hands from various quarters, then all was silence, and no one took any further notice of our tree. M. Flamaran left the railing and unfolded his napkin. "You may be sure of my white marks, young men," he said, as he sat down. He was delighted at his success as an orator, and laughed gayly.
And old Michu added, in a whisper, "You have passed. I told you so. You won't forget old Michu, sir." M. Flamaran conferred my degree with a paternal smile, and a few kind words for "this conscientious study, full of fresh ideas on a difficult subject." I bowed to the examiners. Larive was waiting for me in the courtyard, and seized me by the arm. "Uncle Mouillard will be pleased."
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