At the time of this story he was fourteen, and seemed at once older and younger than his age: older, because his face was grave and weary; younger, because he was small and slight. He lived a very lonely life at the château, poor boy, for he had no one near his own age to talk to—no one at all but the servants and the old priest who came to teach him.
The Marquis, his father, was in Paris, and only came to Montarbre for a week's visit now and then. He sent Bertrand books and games, and saw that he had the best of attention, but as to staying in the dull old place with his son—well, really, no one could expect it of him, he thought. Bertrand's ill-health had been a bitter sorrow to him, and he shrank from being reminded that his son was an invalid for life. It was his own distress of which he chiefly thought; and that was much easier to bear in the city, where there were so many things to distract and
