their ideas are not the ideas of a person in your class of life."
"Ah, bah!" Bertrand cried, throwing out his hands with a gesture of contempt, "I am tired of hearing what is proper for my class of life! Me,—I wish I were the child of a field-laborer, with rags to wear, and onions and black bread to eat! Then I could be happy! Then I need not be always told—'M. Bertrand—that is unsuitable to your rank!' or, 'M. Bertrand—this or that will harm you!' I am so tired—so tired!"
He finished his angry speech with a pitiful sob, and the curé, who had been about to reprove his pupil, took him in his arms and said gently,—
"A great many things are hard to bear now, but the time comes when we thank those who seem severe while we do not understand their motives. When you are Marquis de Montarbre— "
Bertrand interrupted him.
