By turning the leaf, I discovered that the remarkable brown colouring of
the face was due to the fact that the whole monkey, after all, was only
a coffee-stain. The artist had merely added a pair of eyes and a little
hair; the genial expression of the picture was really to be credited to
the individual who had spilt the coffee.

'Cucumis couldn't draw,' thought I; that I knew. 'But, by Jove! he
_could_ do his process!'

And now I came to think of Cucumis, of his handsome degree, of his
triumphant home-coming, and of how much he must have read in order to
become so learned. And, while I thought of all this, my consciousness
awoke little by little, until my own ignorance suddenly stood clearly
before me in all its horrible nakedness.

I pictured to myself the shame of having to 'dismount,' or, still worse,
of being that one unfortunate of whom it is invariably said with
sinister anonymity, 'One of the candidates received _non contemnendus_'.
And as it sometimes happens that people lose their reason through much
learning, so I grew half crazy with terror at my ignorance.

Up I jumped, and dipped my head in the wash-basin. Scarcely taking time
to dry myself, I began to read with an energy that fixed every word in
my memory.

Down the left page I hurried, with unabated vigour down the right; I
reached the monkey, rushed past him, turned the leaf, and read bravely
on.

I was not conscious of the fact that my strength was now completely