who has translated in a freezing garret, on scraps of refuse
paper, the immortal poem of Torquato Tasso. What a task!"

The child listened to the tipsy philosopher without understanding
one word of his rigmarole; only Monsieur Tudesco struck him as
a strange and alarming personage, and taller by a hundred feet
than anybody he had ever seen before.

The professor warmed to his subject:

"Ah!" he cried, springing from his seat, "and what profit did
the immortal and ill-starred Torquato Tasso win from all his
genius? A few stolen kisses on the steps of a palace. And he
died of famine in a madhouse. I say it: the world's opinion,
that empress of humankind, I will tear from her her crown and
sceptre. Opinion tyrannizes over unhappy Italy, as over all the
earth. Italy! what flaming sword will one day come to break her
fetters, as now I break this chair?"

In fact, he had seized his chair by the back and was pounding
it fiercely on the floor.

But suddenly he stopped, gave a knowing smile, and said in a low
voice:

"No, no, Marquis Tudesco, let be, let Venice be a prey to Teuton
savagery. The fetters of the fatherland are daily bread to the
exiled patriot."

His chin buried in his cravat, he stood chuckling to himself,