He has inherited the beautiful Florette's hair and eyes; otherwise he looks like his father.
With your permission, my Lord Abbot, I'll call the boy." "Afterwards, afterwards," replied the superior of the monastery in a tone of friendly denial, which permitted no contradiction.

"First tell the boys, what we have decided ?" Count Frohlinger bowed respectfully, then drew his son closer to his side, and waited for the boys, to whom the abbot beckoned.
As soon as they had gathered in a group before him, the nobleman exclaimed: "You have just bid this good-for-nothing farewell.

What should you say, if I left him among you till Christmas?
The Lord Abbot will keep him, and you, you...." But he had no time to finish the sentence.

The pupils rushed upon him, shouting: "Stay here, Philipp! Count Lips must stay!" One little flaxen-headed fellow nestled closely to his regained protector, another kissed the count's hand, and two larger boys seized Philipp by the arm and tried to drag him away from his father, back into their circle.
The abbot looked on at the tumult kindly, and bright tear-drops ran down into the old count's beard, for his heart was easily touched.

When he recovered his composure, he exclaimed: "Lips shall stay, you rogues; he shall stay! And the Lord Abbot has given you permission, to come with me to-day to my hunting-box and light a St.John's fire.