On Saturday morning, the troubadours' coach pulled into Paris. Georges eagerly gazed upwards at the tall buildings, swiveling his head around to marvel at the bustling streets filled with sophisticated, well-dressed people, all appearing to be in a great hurry to do something important.

Although he had been to Paris only a few months earlier with his parents, the city seemed even more exciting and magnificent to him now. After all, this time he wasn't a mere tourist – he was an aspiring writer, destined to become part of the literary elite of Paris, discussing the great works of literature with brilliant scholars, who (he hoped) someday would be discussing and analyzing HIS books!

Hugues' voice broke into his daydreams. "Well, Georges, here we are in Paris! Where does your uncle live?"

Georges took out the well-worn letter, found the address, and told Hugues. Then he added hastily, "But you don't have to take me the whole way there!" It occurred to him that if they brought him to the front door and were standing there as the professor opened it, Hugues and his family would immediately find out that Georges had lied to them – that the professor was NOT his uncle and had no idea that he was even coming to Paris! They would feel betrayed and angry, and think that Georges had just used them! Georges couldn't bear that thought – they had been so kind to him. "You can just drop me off anywhere. I can find the way."

"Don't be silly," said Belda. "We took you all this way – the least we can do is make sure you get to your uncle's house safely!"

Georges thought quickly, trying to come up with an excuse. "Um, the thing is...my uncle is very shy and nervous," he improvised. "He doesn't like meeting new people, especially when he's not expecting it. And he hates surprises. I think it might be too overwhelming to him to have a bunch of strangers show up on his doorstep out of nowhere. I mean, he doesn't even know yet that I missed the coach! I was hoping to kind of 'ease' into the story and explain what happened and how I got here. You know?"

To his relief, Hugues nodded. "I understand. How about this: we'll drop you off at the end of the street, and you can walk to the house yourself. And we'll watch from a distance just to make sure your uncle is home and that you get inside safely. All right?"

Georges nodded gratefully. "That's perfect. Thanks."

Professor Liseur lived on a cobblestone street near the university. Hugues pulled up the coach at the entrance to the street. "There you go, lad." He got down from the coach and helped Georges out.

"Thanks." Georges hesitated. He suddenly realized he might never see these people again, and got a lump in his throat. During the long journey, they had become like family to him. "So...I guess this is goodbye."

Hughes shook his head. "To traveling folk like us, it's never 'goodbye'. Only 'au revoir' – until we meet again." He smiled. "And by the way, we're performing at the Foire de'Automne tomorrow. So if you're uncle is inclined to take you, feel free to stop by and introduce him."

"Um...I'll ask him," Georges said. "But like I said, he doesn't like crowds, so I don't know if he'd want to."

"No worries," Hugues assured him.

Georges looked up at Hugues, then at the rest of the family in the coach. "Thank you all SO much for all your help," he said fervently. "I never would have gotten to Paris without you!"

"It was our pleasure," Hugues told him. He grinned. "Someday when you're a famous writer, we can tell everyone that we helped you get started on your career."

"That's true. You did!" Georges said. "And I'll never forget it." He looked down the street. "Well...I better go."

Hugues nodded. "Go on, lad. Follow your dream."

Follow your dream... Yes. That's what he was doing, and he wouldn't give up until he had achieved it! Georges turned and set off down the cobblestone street with his head held high, ready to meet his destiny.

On each side of the street was a row of attached brick townhouses. Georges consulted the letter again to remind himself of the exact address. Walking slowly along the street and perusing the house numbers, he located the correct one.

He looked up at the house. Its humble appearance seemed completely incongruous to its importance. This was the culmination of Georges' journey, the goal he had worked toward. This was where he would finally find his destiny and fulfill his dreams. It was where his mentor awaited him, ready to guide him and unveil to him he mysteries of literature, like Merlin to his Arthur. It was Camelot, Mecca, and the Elysian Fields rolled into one. Yet the tidy, modest row house looked utterly ordinary, identical to every other one on the street.

He walked up the steps and stood in front of the door. This was it. After all the setbacks and obstacles, he had finally made it!

And yet...now that he was actually here, all his confidence seemed to drain away. Doubts and fears crowded into his mind. He stared at the lines and grain in the wood door, unable to bring himself to knock. His heart was pounding. What if Professor Liseur was just being polite in that letter? What if he's mad that I just showed up without warning on his doorstep? He was overcome with anxiety. If he doesn't want me here, where will I go?

But that was the whole point – he HAD nowhere else to go. There was no other choice. He took a deep breath, raised his fist, and knocked.

At first, there was no answer, and Georges both feared and hoped that no one was home. But after a few moments, the door swung open, and Professor Liseur himself stood there. His eyes widened in surprise. "Georges?" he said in astonishment.

"Hi, Professor Liseur," Georges said nervously. "I hope I'm not bothering you?"

Recovering from his shock, the professor smiled, much to Georges' vast relief. "Nonsense! This is a delightful surprise. Please come in." He stood aside and gestured at the doorway, and Georges entered. Hervé then stepped outside, clearly expecting to see Belle on the doorstep as well. Seeing no one else there, he looked puzzled, then shrugged and went into the house, closing the door behind him. He didn't notice the brightly-colored wagon at the end of the street as it pulled away.

As Hervé came back in, Georges was looking around the parlor. The room was neat as a pin. Bookcases lined the walls, the books alphabetized by author and lined up in a precisely even fashion, none sticking out. A couch, chair, and coffee table were placed just so, with not a speck of dust to be seen. On the wall was a painting of a bowl of fruit.

"We were just having breakfast," Hervé said, leading Georges to the kitchen. "Would you care to join us?"

We? Georges thought in dismay. Whenever he had imagined this moment, he had always pictured Hervé alone, ready to welcome Georges like a long-lost son. He had totally forgotten that the professor already had a family of his own.

In the kitchen, at a cherrywood table, sat a middle-aged woman and a girl of about 14, eating toast and eggs. Both had auburn hair and wore neat, practical dark blue dresses. The woman's hair was arranged in perfect waves, not a hair out of place, while a the girl's unruly auburn curls were held back unsuccessfully by a headband, with numerous stray bits escaping its hold. They both looked up in surprise as Georges entered.

"Georges, allow me to introduce my wife, Imogene, and my daughter, Dominique," Hervé said with a touch of pride.

"Pleased to meet you," the girl said in an educated, cultured accent, eyeing Georges curiously. Georges felt more and more uncomfortable by the second.

Then Hervé said, "This is Georges, a talented young poet of great promise," which made Georges glow inside. "He and his family live out in the country, in the same small village as my uncle. His grandfather is the great inventor Maurice Reveur."

"Oh! The one who was given the award last summer?" Imogene asked.

"The very same," Hervé confirmed. He turned to Georges. "I must say, this is certainly a surprise! Your mother never mentioned returning to Paris so soon."

"Well, it was kind of unexpected," Georges said. How on earth was he going to explain why he was here? Especially with the professor's family sitting right there staring at him! He took the well-worn letter from his pocket. "Actually, sir...I'm here because of this." He held out the letter.

Hervé adjusted his spectacles, took the letter, and immediately recognized it as his own. "Ah! So your mother agrees with me that you would benefit from a proper education, and seeks my assistance? Splendid!" Then he frowned. "But I had expected her to write back to me if such was the case. I certainly never intended for her to rush you back to Paris immediately! Attending the lycee is not a matter of simply walking into a classroom and taking a seat, you know. For one thing, students must be 15 or older to attend, so you will not even be eligible for three more years. Then there are specific procedures to follow. Prospective students must submit an application, including a recommendation - which of course I will be happy to provide. Then they must pass a rigorous entrance examination. Most students study for a full year before taking the exam. Finally, those who pass the exam are interviewed in person by the dean of admissions, who makes the final decision."

Georges felt faint, hearing all this. It was all so complicated! Why had he thought he could do this?

"Once a student is accepted, there are financial obligations: tuition fees, room and board, textbooks, a school uniform, and other expenses. It can be costly," Hervé went on. "Of course, there are scholarships available, so you will need to fill out additional applications in order to be considered for those..."

Georges' head was spinning.

"I would have written all of this out for your mother, if she had only replied to my letter," Hervé said regretfully. "I am sorry that she went to all the time and expense to bring you here unnecessarily. Rather rash of her, I must say! But I suppose she was eager to get you started." He rubbed his hands together briskly. "Well, we shall make the best of it! Since you are here, I can go over all of the details with her in person. I presume she is at the inn?"

"Um...n-no," Georges said, stammering from nervousness. "Actually...I'm here on my own."

Hervé looked startled. "Belle sent you all the way to Paris by yourself? Without even writing to let me know you were coming?"

Dominique perked up. "You see, Mother?" she said triumphantly. "Other parents let their children travel alone! I could have gone to Italy by myself – I didn't need you to chaperone me!"

Imogene pursed her lips disapprovingly. "Other parents may be reckless and irresponsible, but yours are not," she told her daughter firmly. "Really! What on earth was this Belle woman thinking, sending a child on such a long journey without adult supervision? She should be brought up on charges!"

"Oh, no, it's not like that!" Georges said hastily. "It's not her fault! She doesn't even know I'm here!"

The other three stared at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed in astonishment.

Hervé blinked in confusion. "I...I am afraid I don't understand," he said finally. "Please elucidate."

Georges looked down at the floor. This wasn't going at all as he had imagined in his daydreams. "The truth is...I ran away from home."

"What?" Hervé was horrified. He clutched at his chest in shock.

Dominique leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "Oh,my! How utterly thrilling!" she said eagerly. "Do tell us all about it! Why did you run away? Were they terribly cruel to you, making you sleep in a cold garret and feeding you nothing but gruel? Or perhaps you were a seventh son with no prospects, who wanted to travel the world and seek his fortune?"

"Really, Dominique! How impertinent!" Imogene snapped sternly. "This is a gravely serious matter, not a novel! Go to your room at once and allow us to handle it!"

Dominique let out a melodramatic sigh. "Just when it was getting interesting!" she grumbled. But she pushed her chair back and stomped to her room.

Hervé was pacing anxiously, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. "Good lord! Run away! Poor Belle – she must be frantic with worry! I must notify her at once! But a messenger will take at least a week to get to Molyneaux...And then we will still need to get you back home...Perhaps I should travel back with you myself immediately? But the dean would not look kindly on my taking so much time off without prior notice..." He was getting more and more agitated by the second.

"We should contact the police," Imogene said decisively. "They'll know what to do. And we also need to make it absolutely clear that this was NOT your doing, Hervé. What precisely did you say in that letter? If it sounds in any way as if you encouraged this boy to leave home and come here without his parents' knowledge, we could be charged with kidnapping!"

"Oh, dear!" Hervé said in distress, sinking into a chair and mopping his brow with a handkerchief. "I had only wished to offer my assistance! I had no idea this would happen..."

Watching them with mounting alarm, Georges was almost in tears. This was a disaster! He had ruined everything! "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to cause any trouble!" he burst out. "Look, I'll just leave right now. You can pretend you never saw me. I'm really, really sorry!" Quickly he turned and ran for the door.

"NO!" Hervé and Imogene cried out in unison. Hervé jumped up and lunged after Georges, grabbing his arm. "You mustn't go out there alone – the city is far too dangerous! I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you!"

Imogene nodded in agreement. "Now that you're here, you're our responsibility. We need to keep you safe until you can be returned to your parents."

Hervé took several deep breaths, trying with obvious difficulty to regain his composure. "Please have a seat, Georges. Let us all calm down and discuss this rationally, so that we can determine the correct course of action."

Not knowing what else to do, Georges sat down at the kitchen table.

Imogene said, "Let me get you some tea, Georges. You must have had a trying ordeal, coming all this way on your own." She poured a cup of tea and set it in front of him, then poured two more cups for her husband and herself. She and Hervé took their seats. The familiar ritual of sipping tea seemed to calm them both. The tension in the room eased a bit.

"Now, Georges, please explain. What on earth possessed you to run away?" Hervé asked.

"I'm sorry," Georges said. "I just didn't know what else to do! I want so much to go to university and be a poet - more than anything in the world."

"Of course. But why run away?" Hervé asked again, baffled. "I'm sure your mother will do everything in her power to help you achieve your goal."

"Yes...but my father won't," Georges said sadly. "He'll never allow it."

"Ah." There was a whole world of meaning and disapproval in that one word. Hervé stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "That is a dilemma."

Imogene looked from one to the other, confused. "Why wouldn't your father allow it?"

"He hates poetry," Georges explained. "He's a hunter, and he wants me to be one too."

Imogene shuddered in distaste. "Hunting! A barbaric sport, if you ask me."

"But I don't want to hunt. I don't want to kill anything!" George said. "So every time he would take me out hunting, I would miss all my shots on purpose. Finally he found out, and made me go hunting for real. So I killed a deer, just to make him happy. It was horrible." Georges' eyes welled up with tears at the memory. '"So I told him I didn't want to hunt ever again. But he said I had to! He said I had to keep on hunting until I got used to it and it didn't bother me anymore. And he blamed poetry. He said it made me squeamish and weak. He forbid me from reading or writing poems ever again."

"Oh, my! How dreadful!" Imogene said, aghast. "Surely you must be exaggerating?"

Hervé grimaced. "I fear not," he said grimly. "I have met Georges' father: an uncivilized, boorish man who prizes brute strength above all else, dislikes books, and sneers at education. As I recall, he has a violent temper as well." A thought suddenly occurred to him, and he looked at Georges with concern. "Has your father been violent to you, Georges? Is that why you ran away?"

"Oh, no!" Georges said hastily. "He's not that bad! He doesn't hit me or anything." Hervé looked doubtful. Georges felt a stab of guilt – had he made his father sound like a monster? Apparently he had. "He's not a bad guy, really," he said defensively, remembering all the camping trips, the horseback rides, the archery lessons. "He just thinks a man should be tough, and that poetry is unmanly. He can't understand why it's so important to me. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen. But I can't live without poetry, professor - I just can't!"

"I completely understand. A life devoid of poetry would be truly unbearable," Hervé said sympathetically."A difficult dilemma, to be sure. But may I ask why you decided to come here, Georges? I would like to help you, but I am at an utter loss as to how I might be of assistance. Your father is certainly not likely to be persuaded by anything I have to say."

Georges looked down. "It's just...when you showed me around the university that time, you were so nice. And you knew SO much about poetry – I would love to learn all about it from you. And then you wrote that letter saying I'm talented and that I should go to school in Paris. So I just thought...well...I thought...maybe I could stay here and go to school?" He looked up at Hervé hopefully. "I promise I wouldn't get in your way! And I could work to earn my keep – I'm a very hard worker. I wouldn't be any trouble, honest! I just want so much to learn about poetry."

In Georges' daydreams, this was the moment that the professor would take charge and assure Georges that he absolutely had done the right thing, that of course he was welcome to stay, and that Georges shouldn't worry about a thing, because Hervé would take care of everything and make it all right.

Instead, Hervé just looked flabbergasted and overwhelmed. He exchanged a helpless glance with his wife. Finally, after what felt to Georges like an eternity, he spoke. "Georges..." he said slowly. "I certainly sympathize with your situation. And I greatly admire your deep and unwavering dedication to poetry. With your immense talent and passion, you will go far in life – of that, I have no doubt. I am also flattered to hear that you think so highly of me." He hesitated. "However, this...plan of yours unfortunately is not feasible."

"Oh," Georges said softly, his heart sinking. He tried not to cry.

"Please don't misunderstand me," Hervé added quickly. "You have remarkable talent, and I do want to help you and facilitate your success in any way I can. My intention was to give your mother all the information she needed to help you study and ultimately gain entrance to a prestigious lycee and eventually university. But Georges, you must understand: without your parents' consent, my hands are tied. I have no legal standing whatsoever to make decisions on your behalf. Your parents are the ones who must sign the application forms. And, as Imogene astutely pointed out, if I keep you here without their knowledge or permission, I would be breaking the law. Legally speaking, I would be considered a kidnapper, and could be brought up on charges."

"Even if I want to be here?" Georges pressed.

"I'm afraid so," Hervé confirmed. "You are a minor, subject to the decisions of your parents until you come of age. Besides, it would be highly unethical to keep you here without their knowledge - not to mention extremely cruel!" he added sternly. "Your poor parents must be frantic with worry about you! It would be wrong not to notify them of your whereabouts and let them know that you are safe."

Georges remembered seeing his parents riding past the wagon, looking so upset, his mother's face stained with tears. At the time, he had pushed his mounting guilt aside to focus on his goal. Now, hearing his own idol chastise him for it, he was filled with shame at his own selfishness. "You're right," he said in a small voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause any trouble." He looked up at Hervé hopelessly. "But if I go back, how can I ever be a poet?"

Hervé appeared to be at an utter loss. Finally he said, "Imogene, may I have a word in private?"

"Of course." She stood up.

"Please excuse us for a moment, Georges." The two of them stepped into the parlor, where Georges could hear them discussing the situation in low voices. He struggled anxiously to make out what they were saying, but could not.

Finally they returned. The professor said, "After considering the situation, here is what we propose. I will write to your parents today to inform them of your whereabouts and ask them what they wish me to do – if I should travel with you to bring you home, or if they would prefer to come get you themselves. I will also explain your reasoning for running away, as you have told it to me, and use all my powers of persuasion to communicate how important it is for you to be given the opportunity to pursue an education and maximize your natural gifts. I doubt your father will listen, but your mother surely will. Belle is a determined and strong-willed woman, as well as a great lover of literature; I cannot imagine that she would allow your father to prevail in his edict forbidding poetry."

Georges nodded. He knew that that was true – that his mother fully supported his dreams. But he also knew that this would mean more fighting between his parents. There seemed no way around it. Why had he thought that Hervé would be able to magically fix everything?

Hervé went on, "Unfortunately, it will take at least a week for the letter to reach them, and then another week until we hear back from them, or until they arrive to fetch you. But it seems to me that we can use that time productively. I will go over your poems with you and give you tips and pointers on how to improve your writing. I will also lend you some of my own poetry books and assign you some reading to do, which we can then discuss in depth. After all, you have traveled a long way seeking an education - it only seems fair to provide you with at least a small taste of one."

"Really?" Georges said gratefully. "Thank you so much, Professor Liseur!"

Hervé smiled. "It is truly a pleasure to meet a student so eager to learn," he said sincerely. "I will write the letter to your parents at once." Under his breath, he muttered worriedly to himself, "I only hope that your father does not hold me responsible for your rash actions." He turned to his wife. "Imogene, will you show Georges to the guest room? You can rest a while from your journey, Georges. Later, after lunch, we can go into my study to begin your poetry lessons."

Georges nodded gratefully. He followed Imogene to the guest room, thanked her, and sat down in an armchair. Things hadn't turned out exactly as he'd hoped. But at least he would have a few days to learn about poetry...before he had to go home and face his father's wrath and everyone being mad that he'd run away. That thought made him cringe inside, but he pushed it away. For now, at least, he would focus on being a scholar...for as long as he could get away with it.