In his study M. Bergeret, professor of literature at the University,was preparing his lesson on the eighth book of the Æneid to theshrill mechanical accompaniment of the piano, on which, close by, hisdaughters were practising a difficult exercise. M. Bergeret’s roompossessed only one window, but this was a large one, and filled up onewhole side. It admitted, however, more draught than light, for thesashes were ill-fitting and the panes darkened by a high contiguouswall. M. Bergeret’s table, pushed close against this window, caughtthe dismal rays of niggard daylight that filtered through. As a matterof fact this study, where the professor polished and repolished hisfine, scholarly phrases, was nothing more than a shapeless cranny, orrather a double recess, behind the framework of the main staircasewhich, spreading out most inconsiderately in a great curve towards4the window, left only room on either side for two useless, churlishcorners. Trammelled by this monstrous, green-papered paunch of masonry,M. Bergeret had with difficulty discovered in his cantankerous study—ageometrical abortion as well as an æsthetic abomination—a scanty flatsurface where he could stack his books along the deal shelves, uponwhich yellow rows of Teubner classics were plunged in never-liftedgloom. M. Bergeret himself used to sit squeezed close up against thewindow, writing in a cold, chilly style that owed much to the bleaknessof the atmosphere in which he worked. Whenever he found his papersneither torn nor topsy-turvy and his pens not gaping cross-nibbed, heconsidered himself a lucky man! For such was the usual result of avisit to the study from Madame Bergeret or her daughters, where theycame to write up the laundry list or the household accounts. Here, too,stood the dressmaker’s dummy, on which Madame Bergeret used to drapethe skirts she cut out at home. There, b

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