"No! no! mercy!" cried Oscar, who could not bring himself to submit to
a torture that seemed to him worse than death.

Moreau then took the lad by his coat, and dragged him, as he might a
dead body, through the yards, which rang with the boy's outcries and
sobs. He pulled him up the portico, and, with an arm that fury made
powerful, he flung him, bellowing, and rigid as a pole, into the
salon, at the very feet of the count, who, having completed the
purchase of Les Moulineaux, was about to leave the salon for the
dining-room with his guests.

"On your knees, wretched boy! and ask pardon of him who gave food to
your mind by obtaining your scholarship."

Oscar, his face to the ground, was foaming with rage, and did not say
a word. The spectators of the scene were shocked. Moreau seemed no
longer in his senses; his face was crimson with injected blood.

"This young man is a mere lump of vanity," said the count, after
waiting a moment for Oscar's excuses. "A proud man humiliates himself
because he sees there is grandeur in a certain self-abasement. I am
afraid that you will never make much of that lad."

So saying, his Excellency passed on. Moreau took Oscar home with him;
and on the way gave orders that the horses should immediately be put
to Madame Moreau's caleche.



CHAPTER VII