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 am going to give you a more profitable
lesson than all the pitiful teaching I have confined myself to
up to now.

"It is a lesson of transcendental philosophy. Hearken carefully,
child. If one day you rise above your station and come to know
yourself and the world about you, you will discover this, that
men act only out of regard for the opinion of their fellows--and
_per Bacco!_ they are consummate fools for their pains. They
dread other folks' blame and crave their approval.

"The idiots fail to see that the world does not care a straw
for them, and that their dearest friends will see them glorified
or disgraced without missing one mouthful of their dinner. This
is my lesson, _caro figliuolo_, that the world's opinion is not
worth the sacrifice of a single one of our desires. If you get
this into your pate, you will be a strong man and can boast you
were once the pupil of the Marquis Tudesco, of Venice, the exile