M. Lantaigne, principal of the high seminary, was working in his
study, the whitewashed walls of which were three parts covered by deal
shelves loaded with the dark bindings of his working library, the whole
of Migne’s _Patrologie_, and cheap editions of Saint Thomas Aquinas,
Baronius and Bossuet. A Virgin in the manner of Mignard surmounted the
door, with a dusty sprig of box sticking out of the old gilt frame.
Uninviting horsehair chairs stood on the red tiles in front of the
windows, through which the stale smell of the refectory ascended to the
cotton window-curtains.
The principal, bending over his little walnut-wood desk, was turning
over the pages of the registers handed him by Abbé Perruque, the master
of method, who stood at his side.
“I see,” said M. Lantaigne, “that again this week a hoard of sweetmeats
has been discovered in a pupil’s room. Such infractions are far too
often repeated.”
In fact, the students of the seminary made a practice of hiding cakes
of chocolate among their school-books. This was what they called
theology _Menier_. They used to meet in a room at night, by twos or
threes, to discuss it.