The Party Crasher

He was 13, then, and he was called a prodigy by his parents. Little wonder, for Cyrille often summoned his friends for no other purpose than to polish his oratory, and to fashion himself thus, that those in his company suffered no doubt of the greatness of their host. They were little more than an audience of bodies. They listened intently, for nothing so tempted punishment as the appearance of boredom. They did not mistake kindness where smug superiority was plain to see, yet they respected Cyrille and were bound to him, as flowers are bound that grow in the shade of a great oak. Something then happened that should never have happened. It was about the year of his sixteenth birthday. The son had begun to quit the lessons of experience, and now looked about him for worthier teachers. It was Friday evening, and the house heaved with rhapsodies of mirthful laughter. Again, Cyrille stood next to the great clock in the hallway, and gazed upon the scene of the banquet. He gazed with the starving desire to take part. At length, as the mad company toasted once again, he crept from the shadows of the hallway, fully into the light of the banquet hall. The laughter ceased. The guests straightened in their chairs. Their goblets came to rest unevenly upon the  table cloth. Many ladies drew linens to their lips, imprinting them red. And all seemed terribly embarrassed, supposing perhaps that their laughter had stirred the boy from his slumber. “Oh, dear,” he heard murmur.  

“Cyrille,” said the father. “This is my son.” And he gestured to the boy.

“Please,” said Cyrille. “I believe I’ve met each of you.” Herewith, he went to a corner and collected a stray chair. He made a seat for himself near the head of the table. A strained laughter escaped some few individuals, followed by an uncomfortable clearing of their throats.