The Aspirations of Jean Servien | Page 3

is it not so? He is like you"--and laying his hand on
Jean's head, who clung to his father's coat-tails in wonder at the red
waistcoat and the sing-song voice, he asked if the child learned his
lessons well, if he was growing up to be a clever man, if he would not
soon be beginning Latin.
"That noble language," he added, "whose inimitable monuments have
often made me forget my misfortunes.
"Yes, sir, I have often breakfasted on a page of Tacitus and supped on a
satire of Juvenal."
As he said the words, a look of sadness over-spread his shining red face,
and dropping his voice:

"Forgive me, sir, if I hold out to you the casque of Belisarius. I am the
Marquis Tudesco, of Venice. When I have received from the bookseller
the price of my labour, I will not forget that you succoured me with a
small coin in the time of my sharpest trial."
The bookbinder, case-hardened as he was against beggars, who on
winter evenings drifted into his shop with the east wind, nevertheless
experienced a certain sympathy and respect for the Marquis Tudesco.
He slipped a franc-piece into his hand.
Thereupon the old Italian, like a man inspired, exclaimed:
"One Nation there is that is unhappy--Italy, one generous
People--France; and one bond that unites the twain--humanity. Ah!
chiefest of the virtues, humanity, humanity!"
Meantime the bookbinder was pondering his wife's last words: "I wish
my Jean to learn Latin." He hesitated, till seeing Monsieur Tudesco
bowing and smiling to go:
"Sir," he said, "if you are ready, two or three times a week, to give the
boy lessons in French and Latin, we might come to terms."
The Marquis Tudesco expressed no surprise. He smiled and said:
"Certainly, sir, as you wish it, I shall find it a delightful task to initiate
your son in the mysteries of the Latin rudiments.
"We will make a man of him and a good citizen, and God knows what
heights my pupil will scale in this noble land of freedom and generosity.
He may one day be ambassador, my dear sir. I say it: knowledge is
power."
"You will know the shop again," said the bookbinder; "there is my
name on the signboard."
The Marquis Tudesco, after tweaking the son's ear amicably and
bowing to the father with a dignified familiarity, walked away with a

step that was still jaunty.

IV
The Marquis Tudesco returned in due course, smiled at Mademoiselle
Servien, who darted poisonous looks at him, greeted the bookbinder
with a discreet air of patronage, and had a supply of grammars and
dictionaries bought.
At first he gave his lessons with exemplary regularity. He had taken a
liking to these repetitions of nouns and verbs, which he listened to with
a dignified, condescending air, slowly unrolling his screw of snuff the
while; he only interrupted to interject little playful remarks with a
geniality just touched with a trace of ferocity, that bespoke his real
nature as an unctuous, cringing bully. He was jocular and pompous at
the same time, and always made a pretence of being a long time in
seeing the glass of wine put on the table for his refreshment.
The bookbinder, regarding him as a clever man of ill-regulated life,
always treated him with great consideration, for faults of behaviour
almost cease to shock us except among neighbours, or at most
fellow-countrymen. Without knowing it, Jean found a fund of
amusement in the witticisms and harangues of his old teacher, who
united in himself the contradictory attributes of high-priest and buffoon.
He was great at telling a story, and though his tales were beyond the
child's intelligence, they did not fail to leave behind a confused
impression of recklessness, irony, and cynicism. Mademoiselle Servien
alone never relaxed her attitude of uncompromising dislike and disdain.
She said nothing against him, but her face was a rigid mask of
disapproval, her eyes two flames of fire, in answer to the courteous
greeting the tutor never failed to offer her with a special roll of his little
grey eyes.
One day the Marquis Tudesco walked into the shop with a staggering
gait; his eyes glittered and his mouth hung half open in anticipation of
racy talk and self-indulgence, while his great nose, his pink cheeks, his

fat, loose hands and his big belly, gallantly carried, gave him, beneath
his jacket and felt hat, a perfect likeness to a little rustic god his
ancestors worshipped, the old Silenus.
Lessons that day were fitful and haphazard. Jean was repeating in a
drawling voice: moneo, mones, monet ... monebam, monebas,
monebat... Suddenly Monsieur Tudesco sprang forward, dragging his
chair along the floor with a horrid screech, and clapping his hand on his
pupil's shoulder:
"Child," he said, "to-day I