.dt Coward Or Hero?, by Mrs. Sale Barker—A Project Gutenberg eBook
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COWARD OR HERO?
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Coward or Hero?
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COWARD OR HERO?
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH
BY
MRS. SALE BARKER
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WITH TWENTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
New York: 9, Lafayette Place
1884
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UNIFORM IN SIZE AND PRICE WITH THIS VOLUME.
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ADVENTURES IN INDIA.
By W. H. G. Kingston. With Coloured
Frontispiece and 36 Illustrations.
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THE HOLIDAY ALBUM FOR BOYS.
By Henry Frith. With 92 Illustrations.
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BEING A BOY.
By Charles Dudley Warner.
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HIS OWN MASTER.
By J. T. Trowbridge.
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FRIEND OR FOE.
By the Rev. H. C. Adams.
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THE BOY CAVALIERS.
By the Rev. H. C. Adams.
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UNAC THE INDIAN.
With Coloured Frontispiece and 23 Illustrations.
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CONTENTS.
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CHAPTER | | PAGE
I | THE CAPTAIN’S INDIGNATION | #13:ch01#
II | MY NOSE | #16:ch02#
III | COLONEL BOISSOT’S SYSTEM | #18:ch03#
IV | GOOD RESOLUTIONS | #23:ch04#
V | I SEE A MONSTER | #25:ch05#
VI | FRIMOUSSE | #29:ch06#
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VII | MONTÉZUMA AND CROQUEMITAINE | #32:ch07#
VIII | THE COLONEL’S HORSE | #36:ch08#
IX | CHILDREN SHOULD CONFIDE IN THEIR PARENTS | #39:ch09#
X | MONTÉZUMA’S ACCOMPLISHMENTS | #41:ch10#
XI | DARING EXPLOITS | #47:ch11#
XII | THE INTOLERANCE OF THE LITTLE BANTAM | #51:ch12#
XIII | HAVE I A VOCATION? | #53:ch13#
XIV | AN ANXIOUS QUESTION HAPPILY SETTLED | #56:ch14#
XV | A PROJECTED BATTLE | #59:ch15#
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XVI | MY PROJECT IS DEFERRED | #62:ch16#
XVII | SCIENTIFIC REFLECTIONS ON MY NOSE MADE BY DR. LOMBALOT | #67:ch17#
XVIII | I DISCOVER THAT I DO NOT POSSESS THE BUMP OF COMBATIVENESS | #71:ch18#
XIX | THE BANTAM CEASES TO TROUBLE ME | #75:ch19#
XX | MISS PORQUET’S SCHOOL | #78:ch20#
XXI | A FRIEND.—PRISONER’S BASE | #85:ch21#
XXII | STUDIES.—SCHOOLBOY TALK | #88:ch22#
XXIII | A DREADFUL ADVENTURE | #91:ch23#
XXIV | DON’T LET MARC KNOW | #94:ch24#
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XXV | “THE BOY WHO HAS BEEN SO ILL” | #99:ch25#
XXVI | MARC’S FRIENDSHIP FOR ME | #101:ch26#
XXVII | PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS | #105:ch27#
XXVIII | THE PROSPECT OF GOING TO COLLEGE | #108:ch28#
XXIX | AT BOIS-CLAIR | #110:ch29#
XXX | ULYSSES MAKES HIS APPEARANCE | #116:ch30#
XXXI | SAD NEWS FOR ME | #119:ch31#
XXXII | I GO TO COLLEGE.—A PUPIL CALLED BORNIQUET | #121:ch32#
XXXIII | MY NOSE STILL TROUBLES ME | #126:ch33#
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XXXIV | “AZOR! AZOR!”| #128:ch34#
XXXV | THE THEORY OF SELF-DEFENCE | #134:ch35#
XXXVI | STILL A COWARD | #137:ch36#
XXXVII | INCONSISTENCY | #141:ch37#
XXXVIII | MY PARENTS’ DEVOTION TO ME | #143:ch38#
XXXXIX | A HUNTING COAT OF FORMER DAYS | #146:ch39#
XL | THE EFFECT OF THE NEW COAT ON MY CHARACTER | #149:ch40#
XLI | THE BEETLE | #155:ch41#
XLII | A FIGHT AT LAST | #160:ch42#
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XLIII | MY FATHER IS SATISFIED | #163:ch43#
XLIV | EXTREMES ARE BAD | #166:ch44#
XLV | A LAST CHAPTER, WRITTEN BY ANOTHER HAND | #171:ch45#
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LIST OF PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
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| PAGE
COWARD OR HERO? | #Frontispiece:frontis#
“IT WAS FRIMOUSSE, OUR GREAT CAT” | #27:i027#
“HE MADE A SUDDEN SPRING, AND CAME WITH A BANG AGAINST THE BARS” | #45:i045#
“THE DOCTOR STARED AT MY NOSE” | #63:i063#
“A GREAT BOY OF ELEVEN, RATHER A STUPID FELLOW” | #79:i079#
“I UTTERED A PIERCING CRY” | #95:i095#
“I COULD NOT BEAR TO SEE A COW COMING UP TO ME” | #111:i111#
“HULLO, LOOK AT AZOR!” | #131:i131#
“WITH THAT COAT A NEW ERA IN MY LIFE BEGAN” | #151:i151#
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COWARD OR HERO?
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I. || THE CAPTAIN’S INDIGNATION.
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“Now then! What is the matter?” asked
my father in a sharp tone, impatiently throwing
down the newspaper.
“Nothing, papa,” I answered, but in a
trembling voice.
“Nothing, you say? Then why did you
pull down the blind? Why did you hurry
away from the window? And why, sir, has
your nose turned white? What is there to be
seen in the street to frighten you like that?”
The tears rushed to my eyes, and I began
to sob, as I replied, “It isn’t in the street, it’s
opposite.”
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My father jumped up so quickly from his
chair that it fell with a loud noise on the
polished floor of our little dining-room. As to
me, I was more dead than alive: my father’s
fits of impatience terrified me. And on these
occasions I would stare at him, and look so
stupid, that I used to make him more angry
than ever.
He went to the window, pulled up the blind,
and looked at the opposite house. There, at
the window, stood a little boy of about my
own age, who was always watching to see me
come to the window of our house in order that
he might make hideous faces and put out his
tongue at me across the street.
My father turned round: he stood with his
arms tightly folded on his chest; he looked at
me from head to foot, and then he said in a
sneering voice full of scorn:—“So that is what
frightened you! You unfortunate creature, you
will never be fit for anything as long as you
live. A great boy of eight years old! the son
of a soldier, and of a brave soldier, I flatter
myself. Here am I burdened with a boy as
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timid as a hare, yes a regular hare, to bring
up. You may well be ashamed, sir. Thirty
years’ service! Five campaigns! Eight wounds!
to come to this; to come to bringing up a boy
who is afraid of his own shadow! Hide yourself,
miserable child,” he went on, “for I am
ashamed of you. How shall I have the face
to walk about the town; to meet people that I
know who will say; ‘How goes it, captain?
How goes it with you?’ What am I to answer
to these inquiries, sir? What am I to say?”
“I don’t know,” sobbed I.
“Ah! you don’t know; but I know too
well. I must answer ‘You are very kind, and
I thank you; I am well, but I occupy my
leisure hours in educating a coward! And
that coward, sir, is my own son.’ Yes, my
own son. And your nose! where did you get
that nose, sir?”
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II. || MY NOSE.
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From my earliest infancy the principal and
dominant—too dominant—feature in my face,
was an immense nose.
Now that this organ is a little disguised by
a thick moustache, my friends, to flatter me,
compare it to an eagle’s beak. But when I
had no moustache, my companions who had
no wish to flatter me, compared it to the beak
of a Toucan. Unfortunately for me this was
only too good a comparison, and, what was
worse than all, when I was frightened (which
alas! happened very often) my nose turned
very pale.
“Now then,” would my father exclaim,
“there’s that miserable nose of yours turned
white again: rub it, do, so as to give it a little
colour.”
I was such a simple little fellow, that I used
seriously to follow my father’s advice, given in
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derision, and I would fall to rubbing my poor,
large nose most furiously: labour wasted! it
turned pale just the same.
My father went on reading the newspaper
which he had thrown down as I have described;
and I did not stir; I did not sit down
nor did I dare go out of the room, but I remained
sulking in the corner.
I say sulking, because I can find no other
word to describe the state that my father’s fits
of anger put me into. Anyone who had come
into the room and seen me in that corner
would have said, “Here is a sulky little boy!”
But no, I was not really sulky; I felt very much
hurt that my father should speak so harshly
to me to cure me of a fault which wounded
my own self-respect as much as it did his. I
was not sulky then, only deeply distressed;
but all sorts of contradictory thoughts passed
through my head, and I knew neither how to
utter nor explain them: I remained silent and
uncomfortable, and people made the mistake
of thinking me sulky.
I grieved over my father’s reprimand, and
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pondered sadly while he read the newspaper.
I asked myself, “How is it that other little
boys can help being cowards?”
I then made up my mind that for the future
I would be brave; yet I could not help feeling
an inward consciousness that, when the opportunity
came for me to show courage, I should
only play the coward again. I endured real
torture that hour I passed in the corner, and
was finding my trouble insupportable, when
suddenly the door opened to admit my father’s
old friend Colonel Boissot.
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III. || COLONEL BOISSOT’S SYSTEM.
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Colonel Boissot was an old brother-in-arms
of my father, who, like him, had retired
from the army, and settled down to a quiet
life at Loches.
After the first few words of welcome and
politeness had passed, my father asked the
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colonel, if he happened to know of any animal
that was more timid than a hare.
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“An animal more timid than a hare?” replied
the colonel thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said my father.
“By Jove, certainly!” answered the colonel,
“a frog is more cowardly, because in the old
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fable of La Fontaine we are told that the frogs
were afraid of a hare.”
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“Very well,” said my father, pointing at
me with the newspaper, “there you see a frog
then; I have only to put him in a glass bottle
with a little ladder, to act as a barometer,”
and as he uttered these words, he looked at me
with a vexed and mortified expression, and
made me a sign to go out of the room.
The colonel looked at me, with his great
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round eyes wide open, and making a slight
grimace, asked, “Is he——”
“Good gracious! yes,” replied my father
with a deep sigh. The colonel whistled softly,
as he looked at my father, and he rolled his
eyes back to me with an astonished expression
in them, pretended or real. This warlike man
felt surprised, apparently, to find a coward in
the son of a brother-in-arms. All the time he
stared at me I did not dare to move.
At last he shook his head several times and
said, grinding his teeth the while, “You know,
Bicquerot, I belong to the old school. For
such fancies as these (for they are pure
fancies), I know but of one remedy,” and he
made suggestive and disagreeable movements
with his cane as if chastising an imaginary
coward.
“Oh, no!” my father answered quickly,
“no, the remedy would be worse than the
malady. And think, too, of his mother: she,
the poor dear mother, would go mad. No!
no! certainly not.”
“You are wrong,” drily replied the advocate
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of violent measures, “it is an infallible
remedy.”
“That is possible,” said my father; “but I
could never resort to it.” Then turning to
me he said in a more gentle tone of voice,
“Now go, my poor boy, run and find your
mother.”
There was something so sad, so touching in
the tone of my father’s voice, the expression
of his face was so kind, that if the odious
colonel had not been present I should have
thrown my arms round his neck and kissed
him.
But I dared not, and as I awkwardly shut
the door after me, with trembling hands, I
again heard these words issue, one by one,
from between the clenched teeth of the terrible
colonel: “Bicquerot, you are wrong.”
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IV. || GOOD RESOLUTIONS.
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But no! my father was not wrong; for I
loved him with all my heart, in spite of his
fits of anger, and I would never have deceived
him in anything. If he had beaten me, I felt
that I could never have loved him so much
again. I should, most likely, have become a
liar like Robert Boissot. For, after all, the old
school system had not succeeded so well with
him. It is true that when his father was
present, he was all that could be desired in a
boy; one would have thought he was on
parade too, because of his soldier-like bearing.
But when his father turned his back, matters
were, indeed, very different. He spoke of the
colonel in the most disrespectful way; and I
will not repeat here the dreadful untruths
which he would utter without the slightest
shame. It is true I was a coward, but they
might have killed me outright, before I would
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have said the things of my parents, that he
said of his. And he would laugh while he
said them! Actually laugh.
Before his father, the colonel, this boy would
pretend to be most friendly to me: he would
call me his “dear good little Paul.” If I had
dared I would have called him a liar before
everybody; for when his father was not there,
he would take me into a corner, and make the
most hideous faces at me, and pull my poor
long nose, till I cried; threatening at the
same time, if I told anyone, that he would
squeeze me to death in the doorway.
Was not this cowardice? but of a different
kind from mine, and surely a far worse kind.
“Ah! if I dared to do things, if I could only
get over the nervous trembling and that stupid
imagination of mine which showed me dangers
in every direction!” I said this to myself as
I walked slowly down stairs; I did not hurry
myself, because my eyes were red, and I was
anxious my mother should not see that I had
been crying, for I knew it would worry her.
These are the questions I asked myself as
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I reached the last step:—“In a small house
like this, where I know every corner, why do I
fancy that somebody is always hiding to
pounce out upon me? why do I fancy this
when I really know that there is no one and
nothing to frighten me? Why do I fancy
always that there are strange beasts lurking
in the shadows which will jump out upon me
to pinch and bite, and prick and scratch me,
or perhaps, which is almost worse, place a
great hairy paw upon my neck, or look at me
with great dreadful eyes? Why am I so silly
as to fancy all this? But now, for the future, I
am resolved I will never be so foolish again.”
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V. || I SEE A MONSTER.
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Pouf! Bang! At that moment something
black, light, and at the same time enormously
large, some shapeless yet undoubtedly ferocious
creature, passed within a foot of my face with
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the speed of lightning. It touched the ground
without making the least sound, seemed to roll
over in the half-dark corridor, and then suddenly
disappeared at the little door leading
into the garden.
I tried to scream, but my voice failed me:
I trembled from head to foot; my legs gave
way and I involuntarily sat down on the last
step of the staircase, and covered my face with
my hands, not to see again that horrible thing!
Without doubt it would return. It was hiding
somewhere, I was sure. What might it not
do to me? I waited in an agony, my eyes
firmly closed. Just then the door of the
kitchen opened, and my mother, greatly
surprised, asked me what I was doing there.
I told her all.
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“IT WAS FRIMOUSSE, OUR GREAT CAT.”
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[Illustration: “IT WAS FRIMOUSSE, OUR GREAT CAT.” ]
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As I did so she raised her head, saw the
door of the meat-safe open, and said: “The
creature that has frightened you so dreadfully
was still more frightened by you! It was
Frimousse, our great cat, who had come to
steal some meat, which I am sorry to see she
has done, and when she heard you coming she
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was put to flight in a great hurry. Now,
see,” said my kind mother, smiling. “Satisfy
yourself; the cat has carried off the piece of
beef which remained from luncheon. Look,
there is the empty dish! Don’t be frightened
any more, my dear little boy, but now come
with me: when Mrs. Puss has behaved in this
naughty way, I always know where to find
her. Come along, you must see her for yourself.”
I answered “Yes” to all my mother said,
but in my heart I believed she was mistaken.
That horrible creature that passed me was too
large, too shapeless, to be our cat.
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VI. || FRIMOUSSE.
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My mother, taking me by the hand, led me
with her into the kitchen, and gave me a
glass of sugar-and-water to help me to recover
myself. She then showed me Frimousse,
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who had taken refuge on the roof of a little
shed at the end of the garden, and the
naughty cat was there eating greedily her
stolen meal. While devouring the meat,
she kept jerking her head first to the right,
then to the left, as if she found it rather
tough. At the same time she looked at us, or
rather at me, with a menacing and defiant
expression.
“You see now that it was naughty Frimousse,”
said my mother, in her loving,
caressing voice; “don’t you, my darling boy?
You are quite sure now that there was nothing
to frighten you, are you not?”
“Yes, mamma, I do see it: I was a silly
boy,” I replied.
My reason, the fact of seeing the cat eating
the stolen meat, my mother’s assertion, everything
told me clearly enough that it was Frimousse
that had frightened me so: still in
spite of all, something within me seemed to
deny the fact. Was it possible that Frimousse,
our cat that I knew so well, could have appeared
so enormous?
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Well, it was just possible perhaps; and now
I began to fancy that there was something very
strange about that cat. While she was eating,
what fierce looks she gave me! Certainly
there seemed something unnatural and odd—dreadful
too—about her. And those strange
glances which she gave me! Surely it was
against me that she cherished spiteful feelings!
Then another idea came into my head: perhaps
this cat, who gave me such vicious looks,
was not a real cat? Perhaps, I thought, she
has the power, at times, to take the shape of
that fearful, that horrible creature which I saw
on the staircase.
If I had explained these foolish thoughts to
my mother, I knew beforehand how silly she
would have thought me, and what she would
have answered. I knew also, beforehand that
her answer would not convince me. Oh! how
terrible it was! Still, I preferred to say
nothing, and I kept my thoughts to myself to
torment me.
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VII. || MONTÉZUMA AND CROQUEMITAINE.
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I think I know partly how this unfortunate
and unhealthy state of mind began with me:
this painful habit of seeing something extraordinary
and terrible in the most simple matters,
and of peopling the house with unearthly and
mischievous beings. I think it came about in
this way:—
When I was quite little, I used often to be
given in charge to my father’s orderly. He
was a brave and honest fellow, and very fond
of me. His name was Montamat, but everyone
called him Montézuma. Unfortunately
for me he possessed far more imagination than
judgment.
Whenever I was naughty or unreasonable,
he would call for Croquemitaine; and as he
was a ventriloquist you may suppose it was not
long before a conversation commenced with
this extraordinary person, who used to reply to
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the questions asked of him from the dark,
mysterious, and fearful regions of the kitchen
chimney sometimes; or sometimes from the
bottom of my porridge bowl, or again sometimes
from the inside of a drawer in the table
close to where my little chair was placed. As
I believed most implicitly in Croquemitaine’s
existence, Montézuma made me do exactly as
he liked by this means. Just fancy! here was
a man who appeared to me to be on the most
intimate terms with a mysterious and supernatural
being! A man who could summon
this being at will, and, at a single word, send
him off again about his business, just at the
moment when, almost mad with anguish, I
feared, yet longed, to see the mysterious being
appear to me.
Our discussions would always end in the
same way when I had been naughty.
“Now will you do it again?” Montézuma
would ask in a stern voice.
“Oh, no! no! my good Montézuma,” I
would cry, “I will never, never do so any
more.”
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“Then, Croquemitaine,”—Montézuma
would say in a gentle voice,—“you can go
away, we will not give you our little Paul
to-day; for he has promised to be a good
boy.”
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“All right! all right! I shall have him the
next time,” a most terrible gruff voice would
answer. And repeating “all right” a good
many times, the voice sounding less and less
distinct and further away each time, Croquemitaine
would depart for that occasion.
As I grew bigger Croquemitaine came less
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frequently. I believe that Montézuma got
tired of always employing the same means
of keeping me in order. Still I did not lose
my faith in this supernatural being. Very
often, when the furniture creaked, or the wind
whistled down the chimney or in the passages;
when the porridge-pot boiled over, and made
strange grumbling sounds, I felt that there was
something more than usual in these noises;
something very strange and mysterious. Then
my heart would beat violently, and Montézuma
bursting out laughing would cry, “Ah! ah!
ah! how white your nose has turned!”
“But,” would I reply in a piteous tone of
voice, “I have not been naughty.”
“That you know best!” Montézuma would
answer sententiously. “What does your conscience
say?”
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VIII. || THE COLONEL’S HORSE.
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The tormentor chosen by Montézuma to
succeed Croquemitaine, was the horse belonging
to the colonel of my father’s regiment.
It was a beautiful white horse with a splendid
mane, and a grand thick tail which swept the
ground. When he stamped and snorted, and
turned his graceful head from side to side, he
looked so intelligent, that I easily believed
everything that Montézuma told me about
him. This marvellous horse, according to
Montézuma, knew all that passed, and repeated
it to the colonel; also, if I did not take care,
all my particular misdeeds to my father. For
instance, Montézuma would say, “So you
won’t eat your soup?”
“No! I won’t eat my soup! and pray, what
of that?” I would reply.
“Very well,” was the answer, “the colonel’s
horse will tell your father to-morrow on parade!”
.bn p039.png
.pn +1
I would have eaten my soup if it had been
boiling, rather than expose myself to the tale-bearing
of that white horse. I learnt, little by
little—as Montézuma found me more difficult
to manage—all sorts of horrible peculiarities
belonging to the colonel’s terrible horse. I
heard that he would bite most cruelly all little
boys who refused to go to bed at eight o’clock,
who kicked their father’s orderly, or who preferred
to sail their boats on the pond in the
Palais Royal (where Montézuma did not
happen to meet his friends) to taking a walk
in the Jardin des Plantes (where Montézuma
always met his friends). It seemed, according
to Montézuma, that this much-to-be-dreaded
animal had devoured the little son of the
master shoemaker, because he fought with his
schoolmistress: nothing had been found of
this unfortunate but his shoes, his cap, and a
letter in which he declared that he thought he
quite deserved his fate.
With a sigh of anguish I would anxiously
ask, “And what did his mamma say?”
Montézuma replied, “She was in great grief.”
.bn p040.png
.pn +1
“I will never kick you again, Montézuma,”
would I cry. “Oh! pray of the horse not to
eat me, because it would make mamma so
sad.”
“Very well; this time you are safe,”
Montézuma then gravely replied. “But remember,
if you ever do so again, he will not
listen to my entreaties.”
With what an eye of curiosity and distrust
did I gaze upon that anthropophagus of a
horse, when I was taken to reviews. If I was
placed near the colonel, curvetting in pride at
the head of the regiment on his splendid white
charger, I was seized with a terrible panic.
“Let us go further, Montézuma. Oh! do
come away!” I used to pray, “he knows me,
he is looking at me!”
“Don’t be afraid; while you are with me,
and I do not sign to him, he will say and do
nothing,” replied Montézuma.
“But,” I persisted, “don’t you see how he
looks at me, and how he shakes his head?
What does he mean?”
“Well, he means,” answered Montézuma,
.bn p041.png
.pn +1
“he just means, ‘I have my eye on you: you
must remember that, and take care how you
behave.’”
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch09
IX. || CHILDREN SHOULD CONFIDE IN THEIR PARENTS.
.sp 2
All these things terrified me greatly, and
yet, to tell the truth, I took a secret pleasure
in them. It was an unhealthy excitement, but
even men sometimes find, like children, a
strange pleasure in what is alarming and
mysterious. Much good may it do them!
Montézuma would have been wicked to put
all these ideas in my head if he had known the
harm they did me. But he had no idea of it,
poor fellow! He must, however, have been
rather ashamed of these inventions of his,
because he never said a word about them
before my father or mother. And I, without
his bidding me keep silence, said not one word
either, about the matter, except to him. It
.bn p042.png
.pn +1
was a secret between us. One discovers when
one is very young, I am afraid, the charm of
forbidden pleasure, or at least, of mysteries,
and it was certainly a great pleasure to me to
have this secret of the white horse’s powers
between Montézuma and myself.
Still it was a great misfortune for me that I
did not tell all to my father and mother; they
would have put a stop to these foolish fancies
and mad terrors, which little by little destroyed
my spirit, and turned me into the unfortunate
coward I became.
People who have children entrusted to them,
or who are constantly with them, should make
a rule that they shall never be frightened by
stories of giants and ogres, or supernatural
beings, or in the foolish yet terrible way in
which Montézuma used to terrify me.
One cannot tell the effect these fears may
have upon children: can never guess the
mischief that may be done. When once my
father had retired from the army I was no
longer under the influence of Montézuma. I
no longer believed in Croquemitaine, and had
.bn p043.png
.pn +1
even lost faith in the colonel’s horse; but
though the actual belief was gone, the pernicious
influence remained, and I was always
building up fresh terrors on the ashes of the
old ones.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch10
X. || MONTÉZUMA’S ACCOMPLISHMENTS.
.sp 2
Montézuma had the most wonderfully
flexible face I ever saw. He could literally
do anything he liked with it. For instance,
he would lengthen his features, raise his eyebrows,
and half shut his eyes, and there you
had before you the living image of Lieutenant
Hardel, the thinnest and most miserable
looking officer of the regiment. Then, in an
instant, he would puff out his cheeks, half
bury his head between his shoulders, and
opening his big eyes, roll them about in a
terrible manner, and at that moment you
beheld an exact copy of Major Taillepain.
.bn p044.png
.pn +1
When he began these representations, which
were performed for me, and me only, I could
scarcely contain myself for joy. At each
change of countenance, I would clap my
hands and cry out, “Again, again, Montézuma!
Again, please, again!”
.if h
.il fn=i042.jpg w=399px
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 4
[Illustration:Decoration]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
He, too, would get quite excited over his
own performances, and after having imitated
the faces of all those he chose to mimic, he
would begin making grimaces of so terrible
and strange a nature, that I would be seized
with horror. It seemed to me as if it could
not be Montézuma standing before me: that
.bn p045.png
.pn +1
fantastic and hideous face that I beheld—now
furious, now jeering, and now surely the face
of some strange animal—could no longer be
his; and, almost beside myself with fear, I
trembled all over. Then I used to have a sort
of hysterical fit, crying and laughing at once,
and I would implore of Montézuma not to do
it any more. And he would then have his
own natural face again in a moment, and
taking me up, kiss me heartily.
In time, these performances which frightened
me so dreadfully, yet which I could not help
asking Montézuma constantly to repeat, had
the effect of putting the strangest ideas into
my head about the similarity of the human
and animal physiognomy. I began to discover,
from this time, different and strange expressions
in the faces of the animals that I happened to
meet with. In some I would read a threatening
or spiteful expression, in others an expression
of mockery or fun, which they, of course,
never really wore.
I remember, in particular, one of the monkeys
in the Jardin des Plantes, who, as a monkey
.bn p046.png
.pn +1
was singularly ugly, and as a greedy monkey,
showed singular eagerness to partake of some
cakes which we had brought with us. From
quite a long way off he saw them, and came
towards the bars of his cage at a curious,
loose, half-dislocated trot. When we had just
reached the cage, and he was within a few
paces of us on the other side, he made a
sudden spring, and came with a bang against
the bars. Oh! how frightened I was! I
thought he was jumping into my face! I
shut my eyes in terror, and when I opened
them, there he was close to me, and I saw
him rolling his eyes and grinding his teeth,
and grinning at me. I thought I had never
seen so spiteful a face! I dreamed of him
that night; and the impression left upon my
mind by the sight of that horrid monkey was
so strong, that three years afterwards, I
actually—before my father, of whom I stood
in some awe—was seized with nervous terror
at the sight of an ugly little neighbour, who
stood at his window opposite, making faces at
me, and putting out his tongue.
.bn p047.png
.pn +1
.if h
.il fn=i045.jpg id=i045 w=600px
.ca
“HE MADE A SUDDEN SPRING, AND CAME WITH A BANG AGAINST THE BARS.”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 4
[Illustration: “HE MADE A SUDDEN SPRING, AND CAME WITH A BANG AGAINST THE BARS.”]
.in 0
.if-
.bn p048.png
.pn +1
.bn p049.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch11
XI. || DARING EXPLOITS.
.sp 2
My mother, naturally extremely timid,
scarcely ever dared to differ from my father;
but still she bravely took my part when he
would attack me too severely on the unfortunate
subject of my cowardice. My father
would always be softened by her in the end.
But as a last protest he would shrug his
shoulders and say:—“Very well, my dear;
but pray dress him, then, like a little girl, and
set him to work to hem handkerchiefs.”
.if h
.il fn=i048.jpg w=431px
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 4
[Illustration:Decoration]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
Hem handkerchiefs! In his eyes this was
the most dire insult that could be offered to
a coward. But I, who had but little pride
in me, I should have been more than contented
to be turned into a girl, and sit and
hem handkerchiefs. I should in that case
never have to leave my mother, and I should
not have the disagreeable prospect of college
looming in the future.
.bn p050.png
.pn +1
I had a great love of dolls; my mother
and I used to make up the most delightful
rag dolls together. I used generally to hide
them most carefully away when I had finished
playing with them. Sometimes, though, I
had the misfortune to leave one about: my
father, then finding it, would turn and twist it
with the end of his cane; wearing on his face,
the while, an expression of the greatest contempt.
Then—with a dexterity which I
should have admired if it had not been exercised
.bn p051.png
.pn +1
at the expense of my poor doll—he
would toss it up into the air and send it flying,
with a twist of his cane, right out of the
window.
My paternal love for my outraged child
would then seem to give me some courage—for
I had to brave more than one danger to
recover my dolly. If the doll fell in the street
I would fly downstairs, and opening the hall-door
a little way, put my head out to reconnoitre,
and—after being quite sure that there
were no carriages in sight to drive over me
and crush me, nor curs to run after me and
bite me, nor boys about to pelt me with peas
out of their popguns—I risked it, and recovering
my treasure from the street, would retreat,
breathless and excited, at the idea of dangers
which I might have met with.
If the doll happened to fall into the garden,
I would first go and look out of the kitchen
window—for from there I could see the goings
and comings of a certain little bantam-cock
belonging to us. This funny little fowl, which
was no bigger than my two fists, was of a
.bn p052.png
.pn +1
most quarrelsome disposition. Directly he
saw me coming he would run up as fast as
he could, and then standing right in front of
me, firmly planted on his two horrid little feet,
he would stare at me, turning his head from
side to side, first with the right eye and then
with the left, twitching his little comb about
with rapid jerks. Why did he come? What
did he want with me? I had never done anything
to him! Had he only then discovered,
like others, that I was a coward, and merely
amused himself (being a facetious sort of fowl)
by making me afraid of him?
When he was at the bottom of the garden,
occupied with his own affairs in some corner,
I would seize the opportunity, and gliding
softly, softly to where my dolly lay, I would
carry it off in triumph before he had time to
follow me. Sometimes though, he would only
pretend to be pre-occupied, and in reality
watch me out of the corner of his wicked little
eyes, and suddenly shoot out from his corner
right up to the door, when I, scarcely outside
as yet, would make a rapid and ignominious
.bn p053.png
.pn +1
retreat inside the house again. Sometimes I
have made as many as ten ineffectual attempts
to get out at the door, without counting the
various stratagems which I was obliged to have
recourse to when once outside before I could
recover my lost property.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch12
XII. || THE INTOLERANCE OF THE LITTLE BANTAM.
.sp 2
When I did not play with my dolls, I made
little chapels and altars in all the corners of
the house. I made myself a chasuble out of
my mother’s apron, and I sang away, as loudly
as ever I could, all the hymns I knew by heart,
and many that I composed for the occasion.
My father said nothing to this, because he
thought that, after all, a child must amuse
itself in some way; however, I generally chose
the days when he was out, and my grands
services took place always when he went out
fishing. On those days I felt I was free, gay,
.bn p054.png
.pn +1
and happy. I sang my most beautiful anthems,
composed of any words that came into my
head, terminating in us or um; and the house
resounded with the noise of my bell.
But the procession, consisting of myself
alone, did not go beyond the different rooms
and the kitchen. I did not go into the loft,
because who ever heard of a grand imposing
ceremony taking place in a loft? I would,
however, have gladly gone into the garden to
ask a blessing upon our rose trees, and the
one apricot tree which grew there, but which
never had any apricots on it; only the notorious
intolerance of that little bantam-cock prevented
the procession venturing out-of-doors.
When I met my mother, as I marched about
the passages in pomp, she would smile kindly
at me, and kiss me as I passed. Then I would
whisper in her ear, “Mamma, I should like to
be a priest.”
“And why not, my darling,” would be her
reply, “if it is your vocation?”
.bn p055.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch13
XIII. || HAVE I A VOCATION?
.sp 2
One day when my father came home from
fishing he went into the kitchen, where my
mother was making some cakes, and remained
there talking earnestly with her for some time.
While this conversation was going on I appeared
upon the scene dressed up in my
surplice, for I was just in the middle of one of
my grandest processions. As I was about to
enter the kitchen I was rooted to the spot by
these words, which I heard proceeding from
my father’s lips.
“You say, my dear, that he talks of becoming
a priest: the fact is he knows neither what
he is talking about nor what he wishes. You
must not suppose that because a child arranges
little chapels in the corners of rooms, pretends
he is joining in a religious procession, and
wears his mother’s apron as a surplice, that he
is therefore fitted to be a priest when he grows
.bn p056.png
.pn +1
up. You might just as well say that a boy
must become a soldier because he puts a
feather in his cap and plays the drum all day;
and then,” he went on in a melancholy tone of
voice, “Paul would certainly be a worthy priest
to offer to God’s service! Priest, do you say?”
Then exclaimed my father bitterly, “No; a
priest, like a soldier, must ever be ready to
sacrifice his own life. A priest must think
nothing of danger or suffering, if he incurs
either for the good of others! A priest must
be ready at any hour of the day or night to
visit and solace those dying from pestilence.
However contagious an illness may be, no
priest may shrink from visiting those stricken
down with it, at the risk of his own life. Do
you think Paul has a vocation for this?”
My mother hung her head and said nothing.
Alas! what could she have said? My father’s
words were wise indeed. As for me, I stood
motionless in the shadow of the dark corridor,
with my little bell in my hand. I listened to
all that was said, standing there too distressed
to remember that I ought not to listen to my
.bn p057.png
.pn +1
father and mother’s conversation when they
were unconscious of my presence.
“You see, my dear,” my father continued in
a more gentle voice, “a man requires courage
in whatever position he may be placed and in
whatever profession he may choose. But the
duty of a priest is to give others courage when
they fail in it, and how can he do that if he is
wanting in it himself? He must set others
the example. No, our boy is less fitted to be
a priest than anything else; for a priest must
be courageous, and his courage must be of the
highest order. But mind, I would not, for
anything in the world, prevent our unfortunate
son from following his vocation, if he really
had one. I will not deny that I had hoped he
might become a soldier, because I was one
myself; but alas! I have had to give up that
hope.” And he repeated slowly, in a sad tone
of voice, “Yes, I have given it up!”
The bell fell from my hand: at the noise it
made, both my father and mother turned round
and discovered me. “Ah! you are there,”
said my father, looking sadly at me. “It is as
.bn p058.png
.pn +1
well, perhaps, that you heard what I said. At
all events it is said, and you have heard it.
However, I did not intend you should do so,
my poor boy!” he exclaimed as he kissed
my forehead. “But you will understand
some day why I have at times seemed severe
with you.”
“Kiss papa,” said my mother, “and try to
remember what you have heard. You are very
young, you have time to profit by his words.
You may yet do better. I am pleased with
his progress in his lessons,” she went on,
addressing my father in a conciliatory tone,
“I have taught him all I can, he knows, as
much as I do.”
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch14
XIV. || AN ANXIOUS QUESTION HAPPILY SETTLED.
.sp 2
These words of my mother, intended to
settle matters happily, at once raised another
cloud on my horizon.
.bn p059.png
.pn +1
“Well then,” answered my father, “if you
have taught him all you can, we must send
him to college. Now then, little man, don’t
let me see your nose turn white.”
College! word odious to my ears, and terrible
to my imagination. Robert Boissot, was
he not at college? I could judge from this
sample of a schoolboy how horrid all the rest
must be. What awful things had that boy
told me about his companions, who set their
masters at nought and fought such terrible
fights that they almost tore each other to
pieces. At this fearful thought I instinctively
put up my hand to my nose. If I took that
poor nose to school, should I ever bring it back
again?
My mother sighed as she answered my
father. “I have thought, dear, that it would
be hard upon our boy to send him at once to
college. The college boys are so rough and
inclined to bully the little ones: you see, too,
Paul has really not been accustomed to play
with boys at all.”
“And whose fault is that?” said my father.
.bn p060.png
.pn +1
“I know, I know,” answered my poor
mother; “but all I would say is, don’t you
think it would be better to send him first to
Miss Porquet’s school? It is so near us;
there are not many pupils, and nearly all are
younger than Paul. Miss Porquet is very
gentle and at the same time very firm. And
the boys at that school are not always having
those dreadful quarrels and fights which they
have at the college. She teaches Latin to
several of the children, for instance to one
little boy whose mother I know, and who told
me yesterday that he was getting on extremely
well.”
“Very well,” replied my father, “let us
settle it so, that he goes to Miss Porquet’s
school first. And now, my poor little Paul,
you must try to be brave. Fight against this
terrible cowardice. Little by little, if you
struggle hard, you will be able to overcome
your foolish fears. If you try each day to be a
little more courageous, you will at length find
you are as brave as anyone else. Things don’t
come all at once. It is only by striving hard
.bn p061.png
.pn +1
that you can acquire a virtue or overcome a
weakness.”
I promised my father to do all I could to
overcome my cowardice. My mother kissed
me fondly in the passage and whispered in my
ear, “Poor darling!”
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch15
XV. || A PROJECTED BATTLE.
.sp 2
I went to bed that night with the best intentions
in the world, and with my head resting
on the pillow I formed thousands of projects,
one more daring than the other, so that
I might show my parents how much I loved
them and how hard I tried to please them.
When my mother came up to tuck me into
my little bed, as she did every night, and
stooped over me to kiss me, I threw my
arms round her neck and drawing her quite
close whispered in her ear: “I do so love
you!”
.bn p062.png
.pn +1
.if h
.il fn=i060.jpg w=418px
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 4
[Illustration:Decoration]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
“Darling little fellow!” she answered, resting
her cheek against mine.
I was so excited that I could not go to sleep
for a long time. I kept turning over in my
mind a most daring project, a most audacious
deed which I was determined to perform.
Yes, I was determined I would walk into the
garden the next day and beard the little bantam-cock.
How surprised he would be to see
me come up to him without the least fear.
Ah! it would be his turn to be afraid now.
.bn p063.png
.pn +1
Yes, I would just open the door leading from
the corridor, open it quite wide! then I would
walk up to the apricot tree: walk straight up
to it without hurrying, or trembling. Then he
would come up to me; I should just appear as
if I did not see he was there. Then what
would he do? He would most likely fly at me.
Very well, let him; but I would raise my hand
at the moment he began his attack, and I
would give him such a blow with my fist that
he would not forget it in a hurry. But then,
perhaps he would give me a terrible peck, the
vicious little horror! Pooh, what of that? I
could easily prevent it!
Having come to this conclusion, I at last
fell asleep. My plan was to get up early the
next morning without making any noise; to
go downstairs and into the garden before anyone
was about, for I did not wish people to
witness my exploit. I was determined to try
if I could not carry my project out with courage
and success; but I could not be quite sure how
matters would turn out, so I would rather have
my first battle over without a witness.
.bn p064.png
.pn +1
When I opened my eyes the next morning,
it was broad daylight. I jumped out of bed,
said my prayers, and dressed as fast as I
could.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch16
XVI. || MY PROJECT IS DEFERRED.
.sp 2
From the staircase, down which I bounded
two or three steps at a time, I could hear the
cock-a-doodle-doo of my enemy. His shrill
voice seemed to pierce through one’s head, it
was such a self-satisfied, such a confident tone
of voice, that as I listened I seemed to hesitate
in my design of bearding the little cock.
However, after a moment I regained my courage,
and I said to him—just as if he could
hear me,—“Hollo, Mr. Cock, in five minutes
you won’t hold your cockscomb quite so
high!”
As valour need not altogether exclude
prudence, I thought it wise to take my father’s
.bn p065.png
.pn +1
.bn p066.png
.pn +1
.bn p067.png
.pn +1
fishing-rod with me. And I drew my cap well
down over my eyes.
As I entered the kitchen I found my mother
already there; she was engaged in picking
lentils and removing the little pebbles which
clung to them.
“Are you going out fishing?” she asked
laughingly.
“No, mamma, I was only going—” Then
it occurred to me that I had determined I
would not tell anybody of my audacious project—that
my intended victory over the bantam
was to be a profound secret until I was
the undoubted conqueror. I bit my tongue
and prudently cut the sentence short. As I
never told a lie, I did not give a word of
explanation.
“Put down the fishing-rod,” said my mother
without paying any attention to my evident
embarrassment; “take off your cap, and come
and help me.”
I hastened to obey her, and, to tell the truth,
I am ashamed to say I felt some satisfaction
in putting off for a day or two, the duty, which
.bn p068.png
.pn +1
I had imposed upon myself, of teaching a
lesson to that impudent little cock. He, in the
meantime, seemed to crow over my infirmity
of purpose, for his cock-a-doodle-doo sounded
more loudly than ever all over the place.
“Ah!” said I to myself, “you will lose nothing
by waiting; you would certainly have caught
it by this time, I can tell you, if I had not
been kept in.” At that moment my mother
went out of the kitchen.
Instigated by a feeling of curiosity to see
what was going on inside the kitchen—or,
perhaps, with a baser motive of crowing over
me, the little bantam suddenly flew on the
ledge outside the kitchen window, and putting
his head first on one side, and then the other,
looked impertinently through the panes of
glass into the kitchen.
“Take that!” cried I; and seizing a handful
of lentils, I threw them against the window.
It sounded like a shower of hail. The bantam
gave a hoarse scream of terror, flapped his
wings, and disappeared. The rascal, I have
not a doubt, paid the chickens off for the fright
.bn p069.png
.pn +1
I caused him, as I heard them uttering piercing
cries soon afterwards.
I carefully picked up the lentils, and set to
work cleaning them again, feeling quite
pleased with my exploit.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch17
XVII. || SCIENTIFIC REFLECTIONS ON MY NOSE MADE BY DR. LOMBALOT.
.sp 2
“That is very nicely done,” said my mother,
on her return to the kitchen. “You are a
good helpful little boy; and now go and put
on your best suit for breakfast, as somebody is
coming.”
This somebody was Dr. Lombalot, the old
surgeon-major of my father’s former regiment.
When he retired from the army he
settled at Tours. He was to arrive by an
early train.
“He is a great original,” said my mother,
“but your father likes him very much.”
.bn p070.png
.pn +1
He was indeed an original! He had all
sorts of theories upon various subjects and
systems of doing things, which he always
made out must be right. For instance, he
never ate a boiled egg like the rest of the
world, and he proved that the rest of the world
was wrong in the way it ate them. “Omelettes,
yes, Ma’am, omelettes,” said he, looking at
my mother across the breakfast table, “omelettes
ought to be done in a certain particular
way known only to myself; but I am willing
to give the receipt”—here he made a little
bow to my mother,—“and you should always
pour in the oil before the vinegar in making a
salad,”—here he twinkled his eye maliciously
at my father, who was mixing a salad, and had
just poured in the vinegar first.
One of his theories was, he informed us,
that neither men nor boys should wear braces.
And then he announced that people should
always walk upstairs backwards, so as not
to get out of breath. Here I unfortunately
swallowed some coffee the wrong way, and
choked myself, because I was bursting with
.bn p071.png
.pn +1
laughter; the doctor wiped his spectacles, and
putting them on, stared at my nose, which I
felt turn pale.
“And phrenology?” said my father hastily,
wishing to divert his attention, “you still study
phrenology?”
.if h
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.ca
“THE DOCTOR STARED AT MY NOSE.”
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[Illustration: “THE DOCTOR STARED AT MY NOSE.”]
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.sp 2
.if-
The doctor did not appear to hear the question,
his eyes were fixed on my unfortunate
nose. At last he uttered the words “Remarkably
strange!”
“What is strange?” enquired my father.
The doctor did not at once reply: lifting up
his right hand, he held it before him, moving
it first further and then nearer to him, as if he
was trying to get an exact point of sight to
suit him. When he held it still, the back was
towards me, and it hid half his face. His
eyes peeped over it as if he was looking over a
wall or as if he was plunged in water to the
tip of his nose.
We all gazed at him in great surprise and
some consternation. As for him, he quietly
continued his operations, figuratively pulling
me to pieces: his eyes became quite small,
.bn p072.png
.pn +1
and puckers and wrinkles appeared at the
corners.
“Not the least affinity,” said he, in a few
seconds, “between the different features in
that face. I take the nose” (here he made a
sort of telescope with his closed fist), “a warlike
nose! I hide it” (he hid himself again
behind his wall until I saw only his two eyes),
“and I see a meek forehead, and a timid eye.
I look at them altogether again” (here the
wall disappeared), “and what a strange contrast
is before me! That martial nose and
that timid physiognomy! that poor face! which
is quite ashamed to have such a nose attached
to it, a nose almost.... What was I going
to say? however, no matter. It is just as if
you saw a gentle, peaceable, good-natured
shop-keeper giving his arm in the street to
some violent, insolent blusterer. Absurd contrast!
a caricaturist would be delighted to
meet with that boy!”
“But,” said my father impatiently, “do tell
us something about phrenology!”
.bn p073.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch18
XVIII. || I DISCOVER THAT I DO NOT POSSESS THE BUMP OF COMBATIVENESS.
.sp 2
The doctor looked grave as he answered:
“My dear Bicquerot, if you ask that question
seriously, I will reply. But if you are only
joking, pray don’t do so any more. It is too
serious a subject to laugh at.”
My father having declared that he was not
joking at all, the doctor looked round him in a
suspicious manner and lowered his voice as he
said, “I have discovered things that would
make your hair stand on end if I disclosed
them to you. I have discovered a real science,
an infallible science——”
“Then,” said my father, “do you seriously
believe that our character and destiny in the
world depend upon the form and size of the
bumps on our skulls?”
“Yes; I do believe it,” answered the doctor
with the air of a resigned and misunderstood
.bn p074.png
.pn +1
genius, as he folded his hands in front of him.
“Yes, I do believe it: O Bicquerot!” he repeated.
“Well, I confess,” began my father.
“Thirty years’ experiences, thirty years of
study and researches, have I spent!” cried the
doctor, “and have at last found the truth!
Here, read this,”—he felt in the side pocket
of his coat and pulled out a yellow pamphlet—“read
this, I say, and the scales will drop
from your eyes.”
“However, doctor, look here,” my father
again tried to begin.
It was the doctor’s turn to become impatient.
“It is not a question of However! it is not a
question of Doctor! It is not a question of
Look here! at all,” he exclaimed. “Truth is
truth. Let me feel the head of the first comer,
I will tell him: ‘Sir, you have such and such
a bump. Very well, you will do such and such
a thing; you will not be able to help it. You
who have the bump of murder, you will be a
murderer. Science declares that you must become
a murderer!’ But he answers me: ‘I have
.bn p075.png
.pn +1
always been a quiet, peaceable man; I have
lived for fifty years in the world and have never
hurt anyone yet, not even a fly!’ ‘Never
mind, my friend,’ I say; ‘in two years, in
ten years, you will be a murderer! and if
you die without being one, remember that you
would have been one, only you had no
opportunity.’”
“Oh, come! that’s too much!” cried my
mother, scandalized and shocked.
“Well, madame, perhaps I exaggerate a
little, but it is in order that you may understand
me better,” and the doctor proceeded to
tell us many extraordinary things which I did
not in the least understand, and which made
my mother very indignant and my father discontented.
He went on laying down the law,
without attending to any remarks or objections
made by his listeners; at last he finished up
a long confused rigmarole with the following
words:—
“Now, madame, be good enough to look at
your husband’s head. If you look, you will
see on each side of the head, just above the
.bn p076.png
.pn +1
ear, a large protuberance. This is the bump
of combativeness, of courage, or, if you like it
better, heroism. Very well, madame, that
same bump is to be found on all the old
Roman heads. When you next go to Paris,
go to the Louvre, and notice the Roman
busts and statues there, and you will see
I am right. Whoever has that bump, if he
was hatched by a chicken, brought up
amongst hares, and nourished all his life
upon nothing but pap, would yet be a brave
.bn p077.png
.pn +1
man, everywhere, and always. Let who may
say the reverse.”
.if h
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.if-
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[Illustration:Decoration]
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.sp 2
.if-
I instinctively put up my hand to my head to
feel in the place indicated by the doctor. Alas!
in place of a bump I discovered a deep hollow!
I felt quite ill! the doctor’s words sounded like
a distant and indistinct rumble. I felt the sort
of despair that a sick man experiences when,
thinking he is recovering, having been buoyed
up by the hopeful words of friends, all his
hopes are dashed to the ground by some
brutal doctor who tells him, without any preparation,
that his case is hopeless and he
must die.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch19
XIX. || THE BANTAM CEASES TO TROUBLE ME.
.sp 2
I went out of the room as soon as I could
do so without being remarked. My mother
soon came after me.
“Isn’t Doctor Lombalot a real original?”
.bn p078.png
.pn +1
said she, trying to smile, “but one must not
believe all he says, you know. You see,
neither your Papa nor I believe him, dear;
and he was very wrong and very rude to say
those things about you, which could only
annoy you. But do not trouble about it, my
darling boy.”
I could not say I did not trouble about the
doctor’s unkind remarks, for in truth I troubled
greatly about them. That shows how careful
grown-up people should be in the things they
say before children, who cannot as yet distinguish
what is false or exaggerated, from
what is just and true.
The next morning, I felt so upset that I was
really unequal to undertake my famous expedition
against the little cock. It was again a
deferred project, a battle put off until the
following day.
On that following day, I went down stairs
with my mother, and, going to the door which
led into the yard where the chickens were kept,
I opened it wide and looked out. I saw only
the hens and chickens, which were clucking
.bn p079.png
.pn +1
and scratching away on the ground. I
gathered courage, and walked outside with a
firm step: I walked through the yard into the
garden where the roses grew and the apricot
tree stood.
There a great surprise awaited me! For
there in a corner lay the little bantam-cock on
his back with his two little legs straight up in
the air. He was quite dead: he had probably
been seized with apoplexy, caused by his violent
temper and excessive gluttony. The other
fowls, with culpable indifference, were pecking
about quite as usual, apparently not wasting a
single thought or sigh on the memory of the
defunct.
“A good riddance!” said I with a sigh of
relief. And that was the only funeral speech
that was made at the demise of the impertinent
little bantam.
From that day I took possession of garden
and yard. My mother remarked that I had
taken a sudden fancy for building little
cottages with pieces of slate and tile, and that
I was always outside at work, in the yard. My
.bn p080.png
.pn +1
enemy was replaced by a large rooster; very
tall, sullen of aspect, and also extremely
cowardly. He never ventured to trouble me in
my architectural studies.
Thus ended the great trial which was to
have decided which was the better warrior,
the bantam or myself, and which trial was to
put my courage to the test. Things were
now really left as they were, for the trial
of strength never came off, by reason of the
little cock’s untimely death. But, to tell the
truth, in my heart of hearts, I was not sorry
that the intended passage of arms with my
fierce little antagonist did not take place.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch20
XX. || MISS PORQUET’S SCHOOL.
.sp 2
In the following October I became one of
Miss Porquet’s pupils. Nothing remarkable
occurred on my entrance into the school except
that my cheeks became crimson and my nose
.bn p081.png
.pn +1
.bn p082.png
.pn +1
.bn p083.png
.pn +1
very white while Miss Porquet put me through
a sort of preparatory examination.
All the other scholars stared at me, as was
only natural; and I could not help thinking,
as they eagerly listened to the answers I made
to Miss Porquet’s questions, that they were
laughing at me, which indeed I believe to have
been the case.
Miss Porquet declared herself satisfied with
my replies, and told me that I should at once
go into the first class, which, as well as the
second, was under her own tuition. The third
class was composed of children of various ages,
from boys of seven to babies of three.
The third class was taken care of, petted,
scolded, and taught and amused by two of Miss
Porquet’s sisters. Now those babies in the
third class were the very children that I
dreaded most, their astonishment at my unfortunate
nose was so unfeigned that it seemed
like impudence.
.if h
.il fn=i079.jpg id=i079 w=600px
.ca
“A GREAT BOY OF ELEVEN, RATHER A STUPID FELLOW.”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 4
[Illustration: “A GREAT BOY OF ELEVEN, RATHER A STUPID FELLOW.”]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
The first class consisted of five pupils including
myself. There was, first of all, a great
boy of eleven, rather a stupid fellow; he had
.bn p084.png
.pn +1
the figure of a young man, and the knowledge
of a mere baby. For three years he had been
struggling with the rudiments of Latin; and
he might, indeed, as well have struggled a little
with the rudiments of his own language, for he
could scarcely spell a single word correctly.
His parents, who were rich, and very fond of
travelling, did not know what to do with their
stupid boy, so they left him to the care of Miss
Porquet.
He had the greatest aversion to books of all
kinds, but he took the greatest pride in fine
clothes, bright coloured neckties, etc.; and he
wore straps to his trousers. This boy used to
hide himself in corners to eat chocolate. He
was given the nickname of The Count by the
other boys.
He came up to me just as we were going into
the playground, and said point blank, “My
name is Arthur de la Croulle!” (he evidently
thought this a very fine name) “and what is
your name?”
“My name is Paul Bicquerot,” I replied.
He made a face of disgust, and gave me to
.bn p085.png
.pn +1
understand that he thought Bicquerot a vulgar
name. I never doubted but that he must be
right; but I felt very sad, both on account of
my parents and myself!
“My father is very rich” (here he rattled
the money in his pocket), “and yours?” he
asked.
.if h
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.if-
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[Illustration:Decoration]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
“I don’t know,” I answered.
Another face of disgust, more disdainful
than the first, followed my reply. He then
placed the point of his first finger on the sleeve
.bn p086.png
.pn +1
of my jacket, which was clean but not new,
and he said, with a rude laugh, “Your parents
are poor, or you would wear better clothes.
I dislike poor people, and so does my
mamma.”
He then turned on his heel and went off to
walk by himself at the other end of the playground.
One would have thought that there
was not one amongst us rich enough to be admitted
to the honour of walking with him.
As for me, I remained stupefied at what he
had told me. I had never thought about
whether my father and mother were rich or
poor. I was rather inclined to think them
rich, because they did not go about with a
stick and wallet, asking for alms like old
Father Chaumont, who came every Friday to
beg at our door.
The young Mr. de la Croulle put strange
ideas into my head.
.bn p087.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch21
XXI. || A FRIEND.—PRISONER’S BASE.
.sp 2
“So The Count asked you if you were rich?”
said a pretty little boy of about my own age,
as he came up to where I was standing;
“don’t mind what he says, he is a little
cracked. Did what he said distress you?
Don’t cry, there is nothing to cry about; The
Count doesn’t know what he says half his time.
He always goes off by himself in that grand
way, when we first come out to play; but when
once we have settled upon a game, and are
going to begin, he forgets his straps and other
toggery, and plays harder than any of us.
Will you play at Prisoner’s Base?”
“I don’t know the game,” I answered.
“No?” said he, in a surprised tone.
“Well, I will teach it to you; it’s not difficult,
you shall be on my side.”
I did not dare to refuse the offer which was
so kindly made, and yet I scarcely dared to
.bn p088.png
.pn +1
accept it. My new friend, however, who was
full of spirit and fun, cut short my excuses,
and, taking me by the hand, led me off. As
we walked across the playground he informed
me that his name was Marc Sublaine, and
that his father was the president of the local
tribunal.
In enlisting me on his side he had made but
a sorry recruit; and in the beginning his comrades
did not scruple to tell him so. I utterly
ignored all the rules of the game: I rushed
blindly about, without the least method. I
allowed myself to be made prisoner like a
goose; and, once prisoner, I began to think of
something else, instead of trying to escape,
and holding out my hand to my comrades to
help me. Once, when I was near making a
prisoner—just on the point, in fact, of catching
him—the boy, who felt he would be caught
directly, turned and ran after me; when I,
stupidly afraid of him, ran off as fast as I could
amid shouts of laughter from both sides.
Once I forgot which side I belonged to.
Each cried out, “Here, here! this way!” and
.bn p089.png
.pn +1
I ran first to one, and then the other, bewildered
and in such a state of agitation that I
nearly gave up the game. If I had done so I
should have lost the good opinion of my playfellows
for ever.
Fortunately just about this time the clock
struck, and the two sides mingled together to
go into school. I feared that I should be reproached
for being so stupid and playing so
badly; but the boys had laughed merrily at
me and felt no ill-will towards me. Marc put
his arm through mine; he smiled at me, it was
with good nature and no desire to tease me.
I felt I loved this kind boy with all my heart;
and at the same time I felt very sorry that I
had behaved so ridiculously while playing; for
I feared he must despise me.
“I am afraid you must think me very silly?”
I said timidly.
“Very silly? why should I?” he answered
kindly. “Not at all. You didn’t know the
game and you made mistakes; that was all.
One can’t do things all at once: one must
learn how to do them. But I will tell you
.bn p090.png
.pn +1
what I noticed when we were playing, and that
was that you are a very good tempered boy.”
I reddened with pleasure, and without thinking
that my request might appear sudden and
strange, I said to him, “Will you be my
friend?” and I held out my hand to him.
He took it, and looking in my face, smiled
again, and simply said:—“I should like it very
much.”
I cast a look of triumph in The Count’s direction;
but unfortunately his back was turned
towards me.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch22
XXII. || STUDIES.—SCHOOLBOY TALK.
.sp 2
With what ardour I attacked my Latin!
How anxious I was to show the boys, and
Marc above all, that although I might be
stupid at playing Prisoner’s Base, I was not
stupid at my lessons.
Marc recited the best in the class, and I felt
.bn p091.png
.pn +1
as much pleasure at his doing so as if I had
been the first in the class myself. I came out
second, to my great joy. The others stammered
through their lessons somehow; as for
The Count he could scarcely decline a noun
correctly. But after all, what could be expected,
when all study time was spent by him
in making paper boxes for chocolate, and
writing on them his names in full, the place
and date of his birth, and his present address;
or else in making little scales with cotton and
pieces of paper, in which he weighed flies,
wafers and little bits of feather cut from the
quill pens,—while the rest of us were busy
humming over our lessons to ourselves, with
our thumbs pressed into our ears.
When I returned home in the evening I
spoke of nothing but my new friend, and the
pleasure I had had in playing at Prisoner’s
Base. I kept to myself the unpleasant and disparaging
remarks made by The Count. I was
happy, animated and chatty. My father looked
at me with an expression of good-natured
curiosity and my mother smiled. I explained
.bn p092.png
.pn +1
to them, at great length, but without the least
clearness, the rules of Prisoner’s Base, talking
exactly as if it was a new game just invented;
as if no one had ever heard of it before, and as
if my father had never been a schoolboy. It
is one of the peculiarities of childhood to think
that the world begins with themselves, and to
wish to explain everything from beginning to
end to grown-up people. My excitement
seemed quite to change my nature, habits and
disposition. I kept interrupting the conversation
by saying in a loud tone, “He told me
this,” or “he did that,” the he being in each
instance my new friend Marc.
My father was most kind and considerate
that evening in making allowance for my
excitement and enthusiasm, and never once
said that children should not bore grown-up
people with their foolish chatter. On the
contrary he rather encouraged me and exchanged
glances of satisfaction with my
mother. Ah, that was a happy evening!
.bn p093.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch23
XXIII. || A DREADFUL ADVENTURE.
.sp 2
The more I saw of Marc the better I liked
him. Every day I respected and admired him
more. I secretly made him the model which
I did all I could to copy. In every situation
which troubled and puzzled me in my character
of schoolboy, I would ask myself the
question, “Now in my place what would Marc
do?” and that decided me.
One night when my father was reading his
newspaper in the dining-room, I sat beside
my mother talking quietly to her, and, as was
my wont, extolling my hero Marc: for the
hundredth time did I draw his picture in vivid
word-painting for my mother’s edification.
She listened as usual and smiled. Presently
I noticed that she began looking about her as
if she had lost something. She searched in
her work-basket, on the floor, in the table
drawers, and at last she tapped her forehead
.bn p094.png
.pn +1
and said: “To be sure! I remember now,
I must have left them in the garden.”
“What is it, mamma?” I asked.
“My scissors; I went into the garden this
afternoon and was working there. I must
have left them on the bench, or perhaps they
fell under it.”
She turned to go out of the room; as she
did so I followed softly, and without her seeing
me I opened the door which led from the
corridor into the garden and went out. It
was very dark. I saw little squares of light
thrown through the kitchen window on the
gravel; and that seemed to be the only light I
could see anywhere. There was no moon,
and no stars. I hesitated for a moment, one
moment only, and then I said to myself,
“What would Marc do? He would go and
find his mother’s scissors, I am sure; I will
go then: yes, I will certainly go.” But as I
made an uncertain and trembling step forward,
my courage almost forsook me: it seemed as
if it was not I walking there in the dark. I
heard the loud beating of my heart, each throb
.bn p095.png
.pn +1
was painful! I heard a surging in my ears
and I held my breath involuntarily. All sorts
of vague forms floated before my eyes. Something,
surely, moved amongst the dead leaves
to the right, I thought. I passed by quickly.
But something is surely stealing along at the
top of the wall to the left? Here I stopped,
and waited a moment. What could it be?
Something, I felt certain, was watching me,
following every movement! However, on I
went, and arrived at last, more dead than
alive, at the wooden seat under the large
cherry-tree. I passed my hand rapidly over
the seat—no! the scissors were not there.
“They must, then, be upon the ground,” said
I to myself, and I said again, in a whisper,
“What is easier than to pick them up? I
must of course feel for them under the seat.
Of course I must pick them up.”
It was very easy to talk of picking them up;
but how was I to do it? If I stooped, surely
that mysterious something that had certainly
been stealthily following me, would pounce
out upon my back. And if it should be hidden
.bn p096.png
.pn +1
behind the seat! If it should jump into my
face! Horrible! Then, too, what a dreadful
feeling it would be to pass one’s hand over the
earth without being able to see what one
touched! who could tell what dirty, horrible,
slimy and cold creature I might not come in
contact with? Without trying to invent any
new monster to terrify myself with, supposing
a toad should touch my hand!
But I now remembered Marc, and I determined
I would be worthy of his friendship.
In desperation I stooped suddenly and placed
my hand on the gravel under the seat. I
uttered a piercing cry and lost consciousness.
.if h
.il fn=i095.jpg id=i095 w=528px
.ca
“I UTTERED A PIERCING CRY.”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 4
[Illustration: “I UTTERED A PIERCING CRY.”]
.in 0
.if-
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch24
XXIV. || DON’T LET MARC KNOW.
.sp 2
When I recovered my senses I found myself
lying in my bed; my father and mother were
standing at the side of it, and our doctor was
holding my hand.
.bn p097.png
.pn +1
.bn p098.png
.pn +1
.bn p099.png
.pn +1
“The serpent! the serpent!” were my first
words.
Dr. Brissaud looked at my father, who said
a few words to him in a low tone. My head
felt so weak that I seemed to hear his voice
from a long distance; I succeeded, however,
in distinguishing these words: “He went
into the garden without a light to look for his
mother’s scissors, and in feeling for them he
must have put his hand on a coil of rope used
for hanging up the linen to dry, and which
was left under the garden seat.” Upon that I
went off to sleep.
I kept my bed for a long time after this, for
I was very ill. I was continually having
dreams and fancies, in which all the fantastic
and horrid creatures conjured up by Montézuma
were perpetually playing a part. Always
the same: Croquemitaine, the Colonel’s horse,
the monkey in the Jardin des Plantes, the little
boy who lived opposite who put out his tongue
at me, Montézuma himself and Dr. Lombalot,
who both made faces at me, and, at last, that
dreadful serpent that I had, in fancy, touched
.bn p100.png
.pn +1
with my hand. As the creatures of my imagination
would torment me more and more, I
would fall to shaking and shivering all over,
my poor father standing pale by my bedside,
and my mother crying. Then, as they
caressed me, I would implore them “not to
tell Marc; not let Marc know that I was a
coward!”
In saying this, I was not just to myself, I
can see that now. I had really displayed
great courage; and, under the influence of the
best feeling, I had obliged my poor little
trembling body to obey my will. Only, in a
moment of great excitement, I had trusted too
much to my strength and it had failed me. I
had attempted too much. If I had not been so
determined, if I had only asked advice, I should
not have imposed upon myself a task so terribly
severe to me. To brave unknown dangers in
the dark was too great a trial for my nature
to attempt all at once. I should have begun
more gradually to overcome my fears, and
then I should not have failed so sadly.
Indeed, after this adventure, I was, for a
.bn p101.png
.pn +1
long time, in a worse state of mind than I had
ever been before.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch25
XXV. || “THE BOY WHO HAS BEEN SO ILL.”
.sp 2
The snow was on the ground and the ponds
all frozen when I was well enough to return to
school. I was warmly welcomed by my schoolfellows,
above all by Marc, who had called to
ask after me every day during my illness,
although he lived quite at the other end of the
town. He looked upon me now with the
profoundest interest, blended with affection:
that respectful sort of interest which one child
feels for another who has been brought near to
death.
The Count alone, of all the boys, said nothing
kind to me when I first met him on my return
to Miss Porquet’s. He was too much taken
up with arranging a new violet comforter well
over his nose, under which comforter he
.bn p102.png
.pn +1
managed to bury his face and hide himself like
a dormouse.
I was too weak at first to join in any violent
games; the boys still played at prisoner’s base,
and hockey, they made slides, and put snow
down one another’s backs, much to the horror
of poor Miss Porquet. When the sun shone,
Marc and I walked together up and down the
playground until I was tired. When it was
too cold for me to go out, he and I remained
indoors and had a game at dominoes or
draughts in the schoolroom.
I was quite sure, from Marc’s manner to me,
that he was ignorant of my terrible secret;
that neither he, nor any of the other boys,
knew that I was a coward. My late illness
was sufficient excuse for any nervous timidity
which I might display on occasions. All went
well with me at the school now. If any new
pupil who came during that term appeared
anxious to make unpleasant remarks respecting
the size of my nose or any other peculiarity, he
was always stopped at once by the information,
“That is the boy who has been so ill.” Some
.bn p103.png
.pn +1
of them indeed seemed to take quite a pride in
themselves that they numbered amongst them
a boy who had been so very ill. What will
not people be proud of?
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch26
XXVI. || MARC’S FRIENDSHIP FOR ME.
.sp 2
Marc was extremely, and deservedly, popular
amongst his schoolfellows; and, as I was his
particular friend, some of his popularity was
reflected upon me.
That I had been attracted by him the first
day I saw him was not extraordinary; for he
won, even at first sight, every one’s sympathy.
Besides, had he not held out his hand to me
that first day when he saw me in trouble? and
did I not owe it to him that I had escaped the
jokes and bullying which new boys generally
get inflicted upon them?
But he, why did he like me? Perhaps for
the simple reason that I loved him so, and
.bn p104.png
.pn +1
that I required his friendship; his heart was
so generous and kind!
.if h
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[Illustration:Decoration]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
At any rate, thanks to him, I found out
what it was to be the friend of one who was
thought so highly of. I was respected because
he liked me, and I felt that I grew better by
being so much with him.
When spring came round, and the cockchafers
began to buzz among the linden trees,
more than one of those unfortunate insects
would be roughly seized by the wing, and
.bn p105.png
.pn +1
passed from the hand which held it captive
down the back of some timid young scholar.
Then the most appalling shrieks would be
heard from the frightened boy, accompanied
by yells of joy and shouts of laughter from the
perpetrator of the mischief. As for me the
very idea of having a cockchafer put down my
neck made me shudder all over. Miss Porquet,
who was rather nervous herself, was very
angry when the boys played this trick, but she
could not stop it.
The Count, in spite of his pomposity, often
came in for this disagreeable practical joke.
He would then fly to his desk and write off to
his mother. Whether the letters went I know
not; but it was his great resource on these
occasions. Now, fortunately for me, no one
dreamt of putting a cockchafer down the neck
of Marc Sublaine’s particular friend.
As things went so smoothly in play-hours I
was all the better able to devote myself to my
studies, and tackled my Latin grammar with
the better will for having my mind at
ease.
.bn p106.png
.pn +1
At the close of that summer I remember
the boys adopted a very disagreeable method
of teasing one another. It lasted for about
a week, just when the furze bushes were
covered with burs. And while the fancy
lasted, the teasing was incessant. Everywhere—in
the playground, at study time,
under Miss Porquet’s very eyes—handfuls of
burs used to be cast by anonymous hands,
like harpoons by a whaler, on the innocent
heads of unsuspecting boys. The heads
chosen were always those covered with the
thickest or curliest hair. And the victim
would sometimes have to pass an hour in
grumbling and complaining, while he disentangled
the odious burs from his head; often
pulling out handfuls of hair as he did so.
This trick was never played on me; that I
was spared, I knew well I owed to Marc.
.bn p107.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch27
XXVII. || PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS.
.sp 2
The holidays drew near, and Marc and I
formed the most delightful plans for passing
part of them together. It was arranged that
I should pass a week with him and his
parents at their country house, Bois-Clair.
This was situated almost on the borders of
the beautiful forest at Loches, and at a short
distance from the meadows watered by the
river Indre. I already knew something of
Bois-Clair, for I had passed a happy half-holiday
there. But this time, only to think!
what happiness! I was to spend a whole
week there.
.if h
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[Illustration:Decoration]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
And yet my joy was not entirely without
alloy. For I thought of the forest. We
should of course go there to gather wild
flowers and berries; that would be delightful!
But if we met with wolves, boars, robbers, or
snakes! Besides in a forest there would be
.bn p108.png
.pn +1
sure to be thickets so obscure, so dark and
terrible, that it made me ill to think of them.
It is true we would fish in the little streams
for cray-fish, that would be very nice! but
supposing the cray-fish were to pinch our
fingers with their claws! or supposing we
found adders instead of cray-fish, or perhaps
frogs! horrid frogs which are so like toads!
Yes, but we would go to the banks of the
river and fish for gudgeon. Ah! but suppose
the bank gave way—as really happened once
to my father—and we should be plunged in
.bn p109.png
.pn +1
the Indre, which is over three feet deep quite
in-shore.
Marc spoke of all these chances with a
smile on his lips, and such perfect confidence
in all turning out well, that I began to feel
reassured. I began to think that courage was
contagious. Not that I can say that I was
courageous, that I had courage myself—alas!
far from it, I knew I could not trust myself
to be brave. But it seemed as if I somehow
so trusted in Marc that his courage did for
both of us.
If I had dared to tell him how really
frightened I was about many things, he would
have made me happy by telling me at once
something I only learnt by chance in conversation,
and that was that François would be
with us wherever we went. François was his
father’s servant: an old soldier and a worthy
man.
.bn p110.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch28
XXVIII. || THE PROSPECT OF GOING TO COLLEGE.
.sp 2
In the distance, however, beyond this happy
holiday-time, there loomed a dark shadow:
the time was drawing on when I should have
to go to college. Now certain traditions which
I had heard at Miss Porquet’s school represented
the college as a sort of anticipation of
the lower regions; where, from morning to
night, the small and weak suffered from the
tyranny of the strong. Amongst the Porquets
(for so the pupils of Miss Porquet were called)
those who were of an adventurous and daring
spirit, looked forward calmly, if not eagerly,
to their college life—at least so some of them
said—and to prepare themselves for it, wore
their caps all on one side, and already talked
the particular college slang. Others less
courageous, waited the fatal moment of their
removal from Miss Porquet’s care to the
dangers of college life with fear and trembling.
.bn p111.png
.pn +1
I was of that number. Some of the timid
young Porquets having left the school, and
actually, as it were, standing on the threshold
of the college, drew back when on the very
edge of the precipice, and obtained their
parents’ consent to pass another year under
the protecting wing of the amiable Miss
Porquet.
Marc was to go to college at the same time
as I did. He was not one of those who wore
his cap on one side or who talked slang, and
he did not boast that he would knock down
the first collegian who looked scornfully at
him. No, Marc was not that sort of boy at
all: but on the other hand he had no fears
about his college life. This wonderful courage—as
it appeared to me—won my greatest
admiration. As for him, it was only natural,
he thought, to be fearless. And we made our
plans together as follows:—
“We will go to college arm in arm,” Marc
would say to me sometimes; “we will never
be rude or provoke anyone, then it is most
likely that nobody will provoke us. But if
.bn p112.png
.pn +1
they touch us, well, we will defend ourselves,
that is all.”
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch29
XXIX. || AT BOIS-CLAIR.
.sp 2
The holidays arrived, and Marc and I went
off to Bois-Clair. Rare and wonderful thing!
that happy time, looked forward to, talked of,
and thought of, for so long, fully realised our
expectations. We were as happy and enjoyed
ourselves in all respects as much, as we had
ever dreamed we should. What spirits we
were in! We were intoxicated with the
splendid air, the freedom, and the constant
exercise out-of-doors. We were seldom in the
house, for we were so occupied with our important
out-door affairs—fishing, gathering
wild fruits and flowers, and getting ourselves
nearly lost in the grand forest. François was
always with us, and always in a good temper,
when we went on any long expedition.
.bn p113.png
.pn +1
.bn p114.png
.pn +1
.bn p115.png
.pn +1
.if h
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.ca
“I COULD NOT BEAR TO SEE A COW COMING UP TO ME.”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 4
[Illustration: “I COULD NOT BEAR TO SEE A COW COMING UP TO ME.”]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
I became quite enterprising, almost daring,
and, except now and then when certain fears
assailed me, which however I did my best to
conceal, I began to think I was becoming a
changed character. One of the drawbacks,
though, to my perfect happiness, while staying
with Marc, was the constant chance of meeting
with cattle. I could not bear to see a
cow coming up to me. That was one of my
fears. Another cause of trouble was the
chance of falling in with sheep-dogs; how I
dreaded seeing a flock of sheep grazing in a
field, I knew the dogs would be with them,
and that if we walked near, they would be
sure to come up to us.
And this they always did without fail, and
what a moment of anxiety I used to pass
when these great, shaggy, dirty animals came
running towards us, barking as loudly as they
could, staring at us with their great bright
eyes. Marc used to speak to them, and somehow
he always knew how to quiet them; for
at the sound of his voice they would stop barking,
and walk off wagging their stumps of tails.
.bn p116.png
.pn +1
Still, when we had passed them I did not
dare to look back for fear they should be
coming after us. It always seemed to me
that one of them would creep stealthily up
behind and grip me. I seemed to feel, sometimes,
as if one of the dogs was only a foot
behind me, and just about to spring, and then,
with a great fear on me, I would turn round
suddenly to find, of course, no dog there.
The poor beasts had not wasted another
thought on us: they returned to their flocks,
after we passed, gently wagging their tails,
and stopping now and again to philosophize,
with their noses examining a mole-hill.
The turkeys were creatures that I detested,
and nothing was more disagreeable to me than
meeting them. I was very much afraid of
them. I can scarcely give an idea of the effect
produced upon me by their little black eyes,
which always had an angry glare in them,
their frightful wrinkled heads, their great
spread-out tails, and drooping wings; there
seemed to me to be something hideously unnatural
always about the turkeys, and when
.bn p117.png
.pn +1
they advanced towards me, with their ruffled
feathers, they appeared to me like some
monstrous stuffed beasts, that went on wheels,
not living birds walking about. Marc did not
seem to notice them, and I never told anyone
the dread I had of those turkeys; but when
they came near I shrank into a corner, and
scarcely breathed until they had passed.
The pigs, too, troubled me not a little. I
would willingly have walked a good distance
out of my way to avoid passing through the
copse where they were turned out. I distrusted
their squinting little eyes, which appeared so
full of deceit and malice; and I hated the
familiarity with which they came up to smell
us, simply because they, like us, belonged to
the house. I remembered on these occasions
all sorts of terrible tales of children having
been devoured by pigs. But the coolness and
confidence of Marc, in all times of apparent
danger, in a little while reassured me.
Little by little—seeing that I was neither
bitten, tossed, pecked, nor devoured—I became
accustomed to all the objects which at
.bn p118.png
.pn +1
first caused me so much terror. It is true I
did not go in search of them, but I did not fly
from them, as I began by doing.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch30
XXX. || ULYSSES MAKES HIS APPEARANCE.
.sp 2
The day before that on which we were to
return to Loches, Marc and I went on to one
of the terraces which overlooked the road, to
shoot our bows and arrows. All of a sudden
Marc cried out, “Hollo! here’s Ulysses!
what does he come for, I wonder?”
Ulysses was one of the gendarmes belonging
to the brigade at Loches. I was leaning on
the railing: Ulysses came up to us at a hard
gallop.
“Hollo! Ulysses, how d’ye do?” cried
Marc.
Ulysses raised his head, looked at us, and
nodded. “Is your papa at home?” he asked
Marc.
.bn p119.png
.pn +1
“Yes,” answered Marc, “he is.”
Off went the gendarme at a trot, and in
another minute we saw him turn to the left
and enter the great gate of the courtyard of
Bois-Clair. When he turned to leave us I
noticed that he carried a small yellow leather
bag at his back. I watched it jumping up and
down as the horse trotted. Ah! if I had only
known what that little yellow bag contained!
.if h
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.sp 2
.in 4
[Illustration:Decoration]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
François soon came out to tell us that
luncheon was ready. When we entered the
.bn p120.png
.pn +1
courtyard we saw the gendarme’s horse tied
to one of the chestnut trees. The flies were
tormenting him; he kept shaking his head,
and giving tremendous kicks with his great
iron-shod feet. As we passed him he was
frightened, and started, making a tremendous
clatter. Off I ran. As I passed the kitchen
window, I saw Ulysses at table having
dinner.
At luncheon Mr. and Mrs. Sublaine both
seemed much pre-occupied; every now and
then they spoke together in a low tone of
voice. After luncheon Ulysses came into the
room, and then Mr. Sublaine told him he
should “start to-night instead of to-morrow.”
I looked at Marc with surprise, and I saw,
by the expression of his face, that he was as
much astonished as myself.
As we were leaving the dining-room Mrs.
Sublaine told us to make our little arrangements
in the way of packing, and so on, for
that we were going to leave Bois-Clair that
evening. She did not tell us why, but
returned to talk to Mr. Sublaine. We were
.bn p121.png
.pn +1
back again at Loches at eight o’clock that
night.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch31
XXXI. || SAD NEWS FOR ME.
.sp 2
The next day Marc came to see me, and
told me that his father was going to Orleans.
This news distressed me, I scarcely knew why.
I had a presentiment that something terrible
would follow. I had seen at Bois-Clair a
large letter with a red seal, which laid beside
Mr. Sublaine’s plate at luncheon. No doubt
this had been brought by the gendarme in his
little yellow bag. It was owing to that letter,
with the red seal, that we had returned to
Loches, sooner than was intended. This I
felt quite sure of: and also that the same
letter caused Mr. Sublaine to hurry off to
Orleans. What would come next?
Alas! my fears were but too well founded.
The day but one following, when I went to
.bn p122.png
.pn +1
play with Marc, he told me that his father was
appointed to a higher post under government
at Orleans.
As Marc told me this, he looked very sad.
When he told me, I could scarcely speak. I
remember I only answered, “Ah!” It must
have seemed very stupid, but I am sure he
saw how grieved I was, for he did all he could
to comfort me.
Marc’s parents were only to go at the
beginning of October, so there was still a little
time for us to be together, but I only seemed
to suffer more in consequence. Each time I
saw Marc, my heart seemed to swell with pain
at the thought of our parting. I was miserable!
how I loved him! he had been so good to me!
how handsome he was! alas! should I lose
sight of that good, kind face, perhaps for
ever!
He tried his best to console me, he promised
that he would often write to me, and talked of
holidays yet to come that we would pass
together at Bois-Clair: and then the blow was
struck.
.bn p123.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch32
XXXII. || I GO TO COLLEGE.—A PUPIL CALLED BORNIQUET.
.sp 2
On Saturday the third of October, Marc,
and the rest of his family went to Orleans.
Sunday I spent in tears, and on Monday my
father took me to college.
The way to the college was through a very
long street, called Pont Street. That Monday
was very cold, I remember; an autumnal fog
came up from the meadows near and seemed
to creep into my bones, and I trembled in
every limb.
At every step we met college boys of all
ages, who were loitering along in the same
direction we were going. They called to
one another from a distance, and formed into
different groups, from several of which I heard
chance words escaping, in which very clear
allusions were made to a new boy who had “a
fine big nose of his own.”
.bn p124.png
.pn +1
Once within the college grounds the boys
prepared to enter school, separating into their
different classes. After wandering about for
some time, uncertain where to go, I found
myself in the middle of a group of boys which
opened, with apparent good nature, to let me
join them, and then closed round me. Once
in the crowd I discovered that the object of
each boy seemed to be to push his neighbour
down; three times did I advance with the
rest to the school door, and each time I was
pushed away from it and knocked up against
the wall. The fourth attempt was more
successful, I was lifted off my legs and borne
with the crowd into school, where, half crushed
and quite out of breath, I managed to stumble
on to one of the nearest benches.
As I took my school-books one by one out
of my satchel, my neighbour jogged my elbow,
and so threw them down; and the professor,
looking sternly at me, begged that I would not
“make so much noise.”
He asked the names of all the pupils, and
made me repeat mine very carefully.
.bn p125.png
.pn +1
“Write an exercise!” said he at last.
Just as I plunged my pen into the inkstand
and brought it out—certainly rather too full
of ink—a neighbour who was watching me,
gave my elbow another jog, and calculated the
effect so well, that the contents of the pen were
shot all over the clean white collar of one of
the smaller boys, a little red-headed fellow,
who turned round to me in a fury. I tried to
explain how the misfortune occurred, the professor
was very angry, and I made myself as
small as possible.
The exercise over, the professor proceeded
to question us, that is, to question the new
pupils.
“Borniquet!” said he, “stand up.”
Borniquet did not move. The boys looked
at one another with surprise and began
whispering, the professor a second time
ordered the pupil named Borniquet to rise.
Strange to say, Borniquet made no sign: this
time there was a regular murmur of surprise
among the pupils; the professor became red
with indignation. I trembled at the bare idea
.bn p126.png
.pn +1
of the terrible punishment that awaited the
luckless Borniquet; I would not have been in
his place for something.
“I desire you to stand up, Borniquet!”
cried the professor, turning to the right,—just
where I was. I looked now at the boys on
each side of me with great curiosity; it must
be one of them, thought I.
“But you, you, you!” cried the professor
again, pointing his finger right in my direction.
I turned round and looked behind me. Where
was Borniquet? The whole class now burst
out laughing.
“You, the third boy on the second bench!”
cried the professor, now quite losing patience.
The third boy on the second bench was me.
The boys near me said, “Get up! get up!”
As there was certainly some mistake somewhere,
I still hesitated, when I felt a sudden
and violent push, which came from I knew not
where, and I was on my legs. I looked at
the professor, feeling very foolish.
He was a worthy man: thinking he had a
very stupid and nervous pupil before him he
.bn p127.png
.pn +1
questioned me in a kind, gentle tone to encourage
me. Presently he stooped over his desk,
and then looked up quite surprised. “But, I
see,” cried he, “that there is no pupil of the
name of Borniquet on the list! Why what is
your name?”
“Bicquerot,” I said.
He tapped his forehead and declared that
he had made a slip of the tongue. “That
might happen to any one,” he remarked, turning
towards the laughing boys.
But it was a curious thing that he should
have made the mistake in the name so many
times. His tongue had a strange way of slipping.
During the whole year I was called by
the two names, and had to answer sometimes
to Borniquet, sometimes to Bicquerot. And
naturally my schoolfellows preferred calling
me by my wrong name Borniquet.
.bn p128.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch33
XXXIII. || MY NOSE STILL TROUBLES ME.
.sp 2
A curly headed little boy, with eyes sparkling
with malice, and a tiny turned-up nose,
came close up to me and said: “Don’t you
intend to give it back to me?”
“What do you mean?” I asked in surprise.
“You know very well,” he answered, looking
more impertinent than ever.
“But I assure you I do not,” replied I.
“My nose; you know you have taken my
share as well as your own, and it’s very nasty
of you,” said this disagreeable child.
I reddened and turned away from him. The
boy on the other side of me seized the opportunity
of my turning towards him, to say:
“My little Borniquet.”
“Not Borniquet but Bicquerot!” I corrected.
“Ah, that’s true,” he went on. “But, my
little Borniquet, tell me, what is it made of?”
.bn p129.png
.pn +1
I guessed that he alluded to my nose, and
I shrugged my shoulders.
.if h
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.if-
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[Illustration:Decoration]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
“He has a false nose,” said my interlocutor
in a voice loud enough for nearly everyone to
hear, “and he won’t tell me if it is made of
paste-board!”
All the boys near us began to laugh, and
presently the whole class joined in the hilarity:
never had an unfortunate nose become so
popular so quickly.
All sorts of jokes were made about my luckless
.bn p130.png
.pn +1
nose. Little pieces of paper were sent
round with witty and unpleasant allusions to
my prominent feature. A future caricaturist
gained great applause by making a sketch
representing the pupil Borniquet dressed as
an acrobat beating a drum, and suspended
from the trapeze by his monstrous nose.
The least reference made to any nose
instantly attracted every eye to mine, and sent
the class off into roars of laughter.
What a beginning to my college life! I
said to myself over and over again, If Marc
had but not left me, all this would never have
happened.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch34
XXXIV. || “AZOR! AZOR!”
.sp 2
When school was over I made up my mind
that I would slip quietly out of the college
gates, and making my escape, run home as
fast as my legs could carry me. Unfortunately
.bn p131.png
.pn +1
I did not succeed in doing this. In the playground
I had to pass several boys who were
collected together in groups before they went
home. I blush to acknowledge that one of
these boys—quite a little fellow too—planted
himself resolutely in front of me and prevented
me from passing him. After standing so for
a second he suddenly seized me by the nose
and pulled it till I cried out.
“Knock him down, he has insulted you,”
cried out a boy noted for his love of fighting.
I looked at him, feeling stupid and uncertain
what to do: he turned away in disgust,
shrugging his shoulders.
I succeeded, however, in making my way
out of college. To my great astonishment all
the boys whom I passed, whether of my own
class or not, seemed determined to call me
“Azor.” “Here, here, Azor,” they cried.
“Hi, hi, Azor, where is that dog Azor? Oh,
here he is, and muzzled! He does not bite,
not he. Get out, Azor!” These were the
cries that greeted me on every side. Why
should they call me by that name, which
.bn p132.png
.pn +1
in France is commonly given to a dog
only?
Here and there, in Pont-street, stood groups
of college boys: as soon as I passed one of
these clusters, the boys all burst out laughing
and called after me, “Azor! Azor!”
Confused and frightened, I ran past houses
and people and soon got ahead of the most
advanced of the college boys. When I got
in front of the Hospital, I saw two old men
breathing a little fresh air at the door; as I
passed them, one gave the other a slap on the
back and cried out, “Hullo, look at Azor!”
and I heard them bursting out into peals of
laughter.
At the corner of one of the streets I had to
pass by, there was a large grocer’s shop; one
of the shop-boys was standing close to the
pavement grinding coffee. As soon as I
passed, the coffee-mill stopped and I heard
the boy calling to the others, inside the shop,
to come and look at “Azor!”
.if h
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.ca
“HULLO, LOOK AT AZOR!”
.ca-
.if-
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[Illustration: “HULLO, LOOK AT AZOR!”]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
The work people, coming out of the manufactory
to their dinners, began to bark at me,
.bn p133.png
.pn +1
.bn p134.png
.pn +1
.bn p135.png
.pn +1
and hiss as if they were setting two dogs to
fight.
At last, to my joy, I saw our house: I was
safe! But no, not yet: my hands trembled so
that I could not turn the handle of the door:
my nervous stamping attracted the attention
of a painter who was painting a signboard in
front of a restaurant near. The moment he
saw me, he left off whistling a popular air,
and, coming towards me, held his paint-brush
horizontally about two feet from the ground,
and promised “Azor, good Azor,” a piece of
sugar if he would jump over it nicely.
I rushed into the house and threw myself
upon a chair, panting for breath.
.bn p136.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch35
XXXV. || THE THEORY OF SELF-DEFENCE.
.sp 2
“Has anyone hurt you?” anxiously inquired
my mother.
I shook my head.
“What has happened, then, my poor boy?”
asked she.
Then I burst out, in a voice of despair, with
the history of all my wrongs. I declared that
I would never, never, go inside the college doors
again! I must be sent back to Miss Porquet.
That if I was not sent back there——
Here my father’s voice cut my passionate
words short, and put a stop to my rage. I
began to cry. My father looked at me and
shrugged his shoulders.
When I told him of all my troubles, he
replied, “Oh, is that all? When I was a
boy, things were much worse than that. You
must return laugh for laugh; and when anyone
.bn p137.png
.pn +1
touches you, fall upon them and give it to
them well. It should be a case of, ‘You pinch
me, I pinch you back; you throw a pen full
of ink at me, I throw my inkstand at you;
you pull my nose, I pull your ears; you call
me Azor, I call you Médor; and there we are
quits! You run after me to frighten me, I
throw my leg out, and you tumble over it into
the mud.’ That’s the way to manage, my
little Paul, with schoolboys; you do that, and
you need no longer be afraid; and you can
then laugh at them in your turn. Ah! if it
had been me!”
Then he took my hand, and doubled it to
feel my fist, and said: “Now, look at that;
that is a fist like any other boy’s; even stronger
and harder than many of your age and size
have. Now I have told you before how easy
it is to use it: you raise your arm like this,
clenching your fist tightly; draw your wrist
well back to your shoulder, and then strike out
straight and hard. There you are, my son,
that is all you have to do. Your adversary
will be on his back most likely; then you must
.bn p138.png
.pn +1
help him to get up, and to dust himself, shake
hands with him, and it’s all over. Now see,
my little man, how easy it is; will you not
try?”
I replied, “Yes, papa;” but in such a
piteous tone of voice, that my father could not
help making a face at me. He then began
walking up and down the room; and as he
passed behind me, he suddenly cried out, “But
what in the world have you got on your
back?”
I shuddered. What could it be? Most
likely some creeping thing; perhaps a caterpillar!
But it was not; for my father now
took from my back a placard, on which was
written—“My name is Azor!” Those horrid
boys had gummed it there!
My mother was most indignant at what she
considered a great insult. The idea of giving
me the name of a dog!
“An insult!” cried my father; “on the
contrary, I consider it a compliment. For my
part, I would much rather be a dog than a
frog or a hare. A dog, at least, shows his
.bn p139.png
.pn +1
teeth and bites. At any rate, in my time, dogs
knew how to bite; but perhaps that is changed
now, as so many other things are.” He
frowned as he looked at the placard again, and
muttered between his teeth, “Ah! if I had
been in Azor’s place to-day, my friends, you
should have discovered that he could show his
teeth!”
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch36
XXXVI. || STILL A COWARD.
.sp 2
Alas! my father’s advice bore no fruit.
Each day brought me some new nickname; I
had soon as many names and titles as a
Spanish grandee. I suffered all the bullying
that timid little boys endure at the hands of
their bigger schoolfellows. And, shame be it
to me to say it, even babies of eight and nine
years old were not afraid to run after me, and
join in any tricks that were played me. These
children would troop after me when we came
.bn p140.png
.pn +1
out of school, shrieking and yelling, driving
me before them, brandishing their wallets as
if they were tomahawks, and I used to fly! I,
who was taller by a head than any of them!
yes, I flew before them like a great, stupid stag
hunted by a parcel of little curs. People
would come to their doors to watch us and
would laugh at me for a coward, and call me
all sorts of names. And once, I remember,
Colonel Boissot happened to see us, and he
stood watching the hunt with his hat all on
one side and a smile of contempt upon his
face.
There was a little fellow at the college called
Lehardy, he was only nine, but I had taken a
great fancy to him because I thought I saw
a likeness between him and Marc: we were
great friends. He never joined the other little
boys in chasing me, or behaving rudely to me,
and as he lived near where I did we often
walked to the college together.
.if h
.il fn=i139.jpg w=411px
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 4
[Illustration:Decoration]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
One day when we were walking side by side
and talking together, a little wretch of seven
came up to Lehardy, and, seizing him by the
.bn p141.png
.pn +1
ear, pulled it cruelly merely for the pleasure of
hearing the poor little boy scream. I saw his
eyes, filled with great tears, raised to me as if
imploring my protection. Pity and indignation
fought a fierce battle with cowardice, I
trembled from head to foot, and was on the
point of throwing myself upon Lehardy’s
aggressor. But, unfortunately, my heart failed
me, and I ran away, stopping my ears not to
hear the cries of my poor little friend.
All school-time I was haunted by those
pleading eyes, I heard those screams of pain,
.bn p142.png
.pn +1
and I felt a kind of horror of myself. For the
first time in my life I knew what it was to feel
remorse. I could not attend to my lessons;
all the professor’s explanations were lost upon
me, and it was impossible for me to answer a
single question. When we came out of school
I kept behind, I would not have found myself
face to face with little Lehardy for anything in
the world. He had trusted to me to help him,
and I had failed him.
I avoided him the next day and the day
following. By chance we met, and I then saw
that the good little fellow bore me no malice.
This only increased my contempt for myself.
No one accused me, but my conscience gave
me no peace. I was miserable, the thought
of what I had done was insupportable to me.
It is very difficult to make up one’s mind to
have a tooth pulled out (at least when one is a
bit of a coward). No amount of reasoning or
advice seems to have much effect. One is
always inclined to reply to kind friends, “I
know you are right to advise me to have it out,
but I dare not.” However, when toothache
.bn p143.png
.pn +1
once sets in badly, it has more effect than all
the advice in the world, and, much as we
dread the operation, we fly to the dentist and
have the tooth out, painful as it is. Now that
was very like the situation in which I found
myself. I felt now that I really could have
the courage to fight with a boy of five or six,
if by that means I could wipe out the recollection
of my cowardice from my own memory
and the memory of my poor little friend.
Unfortunately for my good resolutions,
nobody else seemed inclined to torment
Lehardy, and I felt that if I had to wait to
display my courage, it would all evaporate like
smoke.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch37
XXXVII. || INCONSISTENCY.
.sp 2
My courage did not go the length of making
me cry out to my schoolfellows: “Whoever
wishes to have a fight has only to touch
Lehardy!” I only waited, determined that
.bn p144.png
.pn +1
another time, should he need my protection,
he would not have to look for it in vain.
My good resolutions, I need not say, had no
effect in changing my appearance. My nose
had always excited laughter, and it did so no
less now; when the boys made jokes about
me, and gave me nicknames, such as Azor
and Toucan, I did not dream of using my fists
against them. No; my courage, if you could
call it courage at all, had nothing aggressive
in it; it was expectant only. My schoolfellows
saw no change in the unfortunate
Bicquerot, at whom they were accustomed to
poke their fun.
Still, come what might, I was decided that
if any boy attempted to molest Lehardy, I
would interfere, and would fight with all my
strength in the cause of the poor little fellow
whom I had deserted in such a cowardly way
before. It was very strange that I should
have felt so brave upon this one subject, and
that my courage should have stopped there.
The idea of resenting attacks upon myself
never occurred to me. My thoughts were all
.bn p145.png
.pn +1
taken up with the punishment of Lehardy’s
aggressors.
I leave the trouble of deciding why my
courage should have first appeared in this
form, to any profound philosopher who may
think it worth his while to consider the subject.
Was it from a want of logic, or absence of
selfishness?
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch38
XXXVIII. || MY PARENTS’ DEVOTION TO ME.
.sp 2
When I first became one of Miss Porquet’s
pupils, The Count had taunted me with
the poverty of my parents. This idea once
put into my head made me reflect upon
many circumstances which I should have
allowed to pass unnoticed had it not been
there.
One evening, I remember, I came home
from school earlier than usual as I was not
feeling well, and I found my father and mother
.bn p146.png
.pn +1
at dinner. To my astonishment I found it
consisted only of soup and salad! I understood
now why I had always dined alone: my
dinner was always substantial and most abundant.
My father and mother stinted themselves
for my sake, and wished to hide from
me that they did so.
My father’s half-pay as a retired officer was
all we had to live upon, and part of that was
devoted to helping a friend of his who was in
difficulties.
I was deeply touched; but I dared not make
any remarks upon what I had seen: first of all
I should not have known how to express my
feelings; but my love and respect for my
father and mother increased each day that I
lived.
Sometimes in the evening, while I was learning
my lessons for next day, at the table close
to the little lamp, my father, who would be
seated near me, would fall asleep over his
newspaper, and his head lean more and more
forwards as he slept. I remember one night
in particular that he did so, and I then noticed
.bn p147.png
.pn +1
that he had two great hollows at his temples,
and that he had two deep lines down his
cheeks. I felt heartbroken! My father was
growing thin, and it was because he stinted
himself in everything for my sake! I forgot
my lessons, and I sat staring at my father as
if I could never turn my eyes away from him.
Suddenly he woke up, and lifting his head,
looked at me with surprise, and asked me what
I was thinking about.
“Nothing, papa,” I replied, turning very
red; and I stooped over my lesson-book and
appeared to be working very hard.
If I had dared I would have thrown my arms
round my father’s neck and have told him how
I loved him, how I thanked him, yet how
grieved I was.
Sometimes at night, when I had been in bed
and asleep for some hours, I would awake
suddenly. I would feel that I had slept a long
time, and that it was very late; yet, through
the door which led into my mother and father’s
room and which stood ajar, I could see a light
burning, and by that light I could always see
.bn p148.png
.pn +1
my dear mother seated at a table, working,
mending the household linen, and making or
mending my clothes or my father’s. Then I
would cough gently, and my mother coming
to my bedside would ask me if I did not feel
well or had been dreaming; then how I used
to throw my arms round her neck and kiss her,
twenty times, one after the other, and tell her
how I loved her with all my heart.
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch39
XXXIX. || A HUNTING COAT OF FORMER DAYS.
.sp 2
One morning I saw my mother looking at my
jacket. She appeared troubled and anxious.
I could read her thoughts: she was thinking
that I must soon have a new one, and of the
means of getting it. We were so poor! She
sighed as she looked at my worn-out jacket,
and as she did so I coloured as if I had been
found out in some grave fault. She then went
to my father and consulted with him for a long
.bn p149.png
.pn +1
while. After this consultation she went to her
wardrobe—that wardrobe which was full of
mysterious things—and from it she took a
parcel, and laid it carefully on the table.
My father and I both came to the table,
curious to see what was in the parcel: my
mother took out the pins from the paper one
by one, and put them in a little box. I felt
very impatient to know what could be in that
wonderful parcel, and I thought my mother’s
fingers moved very slowly. At last she uncovered
a coat, carefully folded up, which she
at first took to the window to examine, and
then spread out upon the table. This coat
was a most wonderful and beautiful garment
in my eyes; it was a green velvet hunting coat,
with brass buttons. My mother smoothed
it gently with her hand to get rid of any creases
that there might be in it; then turning to my
father she said, “This will do beautifully!”
I had never seen this coat before, it must
have lain for many many years buried in my
mother’s wardrobe: it was no doubt a relic
of better days: those days that I had heard my
.bn p150.png
.pn +1
father talk of when some old friend chanced to
come and see him.
When I looked carefully at this wonderful
coat, I discovered that it was made of the
richest and softest velvet, and that the head of
a fox was engraved upon each of the brass
buttons. The fox was full face, standing out in
relief from each of the buttons, his sharp nose
and cunning eyes wonderfully true to nature.
At sight of these buttons my admiration knew
no bounds; my mother, smiling, placed her
hand caressingly on my head and said, “Now
thank your father, he is going to let me make
this coat fit you, and it shall be yours!”
I jumped for joy, I turned head over heels,
I thanked my father, I kissed my mother, I
clapped my hands, and I determined that I
would try hard to deserve all the kindness that
my parents showed me. Yes, thought I to
myself, I will use my fists even if only to prove
that I am worthy to wear that splendid coat,
which my father has worn, and which my dear
mother is going to make fit me, with her own
hands, and which has such grand buttons!
.bn p151.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch40
XL. || THE EFFECT OF MY NEW COAT ON MY CHARACTER.
.sp 2
My mother first carefully unpicked my
father’s hunting coat, and then measuring me
she cut out sundry patterns in grey paper, and
then cut out the pieces of velvet from these
patterns. With what anxiety, mingled with
joy, did I watch her operations; it was delightful.
The scissors went crac, crac, crac! as
they cut through the velvet. What should I
have done if they had cut too far? But no,
there was no fear of that, my mother was too
clever for that. All that she undertook was
well done.
Every day when I returned from the college,
I walked up softly behind my mother’s chair as
she sat working, to look over her shoulder and
see “how we were getting on” with the wonderful
coat. I remember one day a gentleman
.bn p152.png
.pn +1
called and remained talking to my mother for a
long time. I was indeed wanting in charity
towards that visitor! what angry looks I gave
him as I sat in a corner studying my Latin
grammar! What angry words I managed to
think, without speaking! All my thoughts were
taken up by that splendid coat. I was longing
to wear it, and this tiresome visitor prevented
my mother from working at it for hours.
.if h
.il fn=i151.jpg id=i151 w=590px
.ca
“WITH THAT COAT A NEW ERA IN MY LIFE BEGAN.”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 4
[Illustration: “WITH THAT COAT A NEW ERA IN MY LIFE BEGAN.”]
.in 0
.sp 2
.if-
With that coat a new era in my life began,
with it I seemed somehow to gain courage and
address. The thought of it seemed to make
me think better of myself. At all events I
determined to try to be worthy of it. When I
went to bed that night, I did all I could to
keep awake, in order to watch my mother
working through the door which stood a little
way open: I said nothing, I lay quiet as a
mouse. The bed clothes were pulled up to
my nose and I was perfectly happy; happy
to feel myself so warm and comfortable,
happy at seeing the bright lamp in the next
room, which seemed to keep me company,
happy at having such kind good parents, and
.bn p153.png
.pn +1
.bn p154.png
.pn +1
.bn p155.png
.pn +1
above all was I not happy at possessing that
beautiful velvet coat with those grand buttons!
That night I was indeed a happy boy. Little
by little my eyelids closed, and in spite of
my efforts to keep awake, I was soon fast
asleep.
The next morning when I awoke, the first
thing I saw was the beautiful coat hanging on
the back of one of the chairs. I sprang out of
bed and soon had it on. Never had I been so
delighted with anything before. It was a little
too long and a little too wide; but it was all the
better for that surely? I grew very fast, and
this coat must last a long, long time. Just over
the shoulders the velvet was rather loose and
puckered, and appeared somewhat like the
wings of a swallow in shape. But that really
made me look broader, and was therefore an
improvement to my figure. The coat had been
made considerably smaller, although it was still
rather large for me; but the buttons of course
could not be made smaller in proportion, and
they therefore covered far more space than formerly
in proportion to the velvet. I was however
.bn p156.png
.pn +1
only the more delighted at this: they were
so beautiful!
My curiosity satisfied about the fit of my
coat, I now thought of my dear mother, who I
feared must have sat up half the night working,
in order to give me pleasure. My heart was
touched beyond measure at this thought, and
I was filled with gratitude towards her. I
took the coat in my arms and kissed it. I
then went to find my mother that I might
thank her. How happy she was at seeing my
delight! and when I started off to college, she
stood at the window that she might watch me
walking down the street dressed in my gorgeous
new jacket.
.bn p157.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch41
XLI. || THE BEETLE.
.sp 2
The first college boy that I met that
morning begged me to give him the address of
my tailor. The second came up to me with
an expression of the most intense surprise, and
passed his hand over my coat.
When I turned to him and asked him rather
indignantly what he was about, he replied that
he considered my jacket admirable! Now according
to my idea this was not too strong an
expression to apply to my velvet coat, but there
was something in the tone in which it was said
that annoyed me. Still more was I displeased
when he walked round me two or three times,
lifting his hands up in the air. He was joined
almost immediately by half a dozen little
rascals, who, following his example, raised
their hands towards heaven, exclaiming in
various tones: “Admirable!”
There were different groups of boys standing
.bn p158.png
.pn +1
about in the street, and in one of these groups
I heard a boy holding forth, apparently much
to the amusement of the others, about a
certain green coat which had been cut out by a
carpenter with a few strokes of his hatchet. In
another group a boy said that “some one”
was a wonderful hand at making coats! And
in a third group one of the scholars declared
that “somebody, not a hundred miles off, was
exactly like a great green beetle!” And then
on every side I heard “Beetle, Beetle!” sung
out to the tune of a polka.
This pastime, which began to cause no little
annoyance to the passers-by, was suddenly put
a stop to by the striking of the college clock,
and in a few seconds the boys were all hard at
work at their studies,—or supposed to be so.
During lesson-time I could not help asking
myself what they could mean about the beetle?
and alas! wounding as it was to my pride, I
could not but come to the conclusion that
Beetle was now to be added to the list of my
nicknames. One more or less, what did it
matter? so I reasoned: still, I could not help
.bn p159.png
.pn +1
the feeling of annoyance this new name caused
me. All doubt upon the subject was put
an end to by the sight of a caricature which
was passed from hand to hand along the
forms, and which my eyes soon caught a
glimpse of.
I easily recognised the absurd nose which
had been so often drawn in imitation of my
own. And now my coat, my beautiful coat,
was caricatured too! I knew it was intended
for my coat, but how shamefully caricatured!
The buttons were made to look the size of
dessert plates, and the whole coat appeared
like the shell of a large green beetle with my
face at the top. To prevent any mistakes upon
the subject, the artist had written under the
drawing—Bicquerot, or the Green Beetle!
Have you ever received a sudden and totally
unexpected blow? If so, you know the feeling
of stupefaction that follows—as if one were
completely overpowered; then comes the pain
which nearly makes one scream. And this is
followed by a feeling of blind rage and a thirst
for vengeance.
.bn p160.png
.pn +1
These are the sensations which I experienced
on seeing the caricature and afterwards,
while my schoolfellows were muttering their
lessons round me.
I was astounded! that jacket which I was
so proud of—which I thought so much of for
many reasons—was caricatured and laughed
at by everyone. I felt, too, acute pain at the
thought that my mother’s work—that work
which was one of the proofs of her great love
for me—was made a subject of contemptuous
ridicule. I was now wounded in the most
sensitive part of my nature.
I felt the great tears rush to my eyes; I
would not let them fall, but courageously
forced them back. I would not betray the
pain and humiliation I was suffering. I
buried my head in my hands, and kept my
eyes fixed upon my Latin grammar; but, with
my mind’s eye, I saw over again my mother
seated at work, busy over my jacket, smiling
to herself as she stitched away so indefatigably,
forgetting all her own weariness in the
thought of the pleasure she would give me.
.bn p161.png
.pn +1
Then, beside that picture, rose before me the
laughing, the grimacing faces of the insolent
boys!
The contrast made me furious! I was so
wretched that I determined I would no longer
bear it. At that moment my hand, unknown
to myself, clenched the leg of the table nearest
to me with such violence that the whole table
shook; the boys raised their heads in surprise,
and the professor begged the pupil “Bicquerot”
to keep still.
The pupil Bicquerot said nothing; but
when school was over, he walked out of
college with his head in the air; his knees
trembled with nervous emotion, but his heart
was strong and determined.
.bn p162.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch42
XLII. || A FIGHT AT LAST.
.sp 2
“Hish! Swish! there goes the Beetle!”
cried an impudent voice in my ear.
I turned round quickly, and grinding my
teeth, asked: “Who said that?”
Brideau, nicknamed “Cock of the Walk,”
who was walking just behind me, was so surprised
at the expression of my face, that he
retreated a step or two.
“Was it you?” I demanded.
He did not dare to deny it before all the
other boys, lest they should think that he was
afraid of me. So he replied in an insolent
tone of voice, “Yes it was me!”
I threw myself upon him with clenched fists
and my eyes shut. I dashed myself against
something, and something was dashed against
me. I felt a violent shock. My left eye suddenly
became extremely painful, felt very heavy,
and seemed to see ten thousand lighted candles
.bn p163.png
.pn +1
at once. It seemed as though my knees gave
way, that I staggered two or three steps backwards
and leant against something hard. I
soon opened my eyes, or rather the right eye,—for
the left was still tightly closed—and the
ten thousand candles had turned into a number
of bright circles which twisted about in the
dark. I discovered that I had backed into a
grocer’s shop, between a barrel of herrings and
a case of dried figs. Everyone looked at me
with surprise. Some of my schoolfellows
cried out “Bravo!” (most likely in derision)
and others asked me, “if it hurt me much.”
“Not at all,” I answered; I was so excited,
that I very nearly said, “on the contrary I
feel the better for it!” Strange to say, nobody
laughed at me. One boy kindly bathed
my eye with cold water. To tell the truth I
was very much surprised to find that a blow
from my fist struck just by chance, in that way,
should seem to change so entirely the conduct
of my schoolfellows towards me.
Casting my sound eye round me, I tried to
find out what had become of Brideau. I expected
.bn p164.png
.pn +1
to see him come rushing at me;
imagine my astonishment at seeing him going
off with a crest-fallen and discomfited air.
He had had one of his eyes much damaged,
and his nose was bleeding into the bargain.
It seemed that I had knocked him down.
Someone said to me: “You’ve beaten him!”
And, then only, I discovered to my intense
surprise, that I was the conqueror.
Fancy! me the conqueror! Could it be so?
It seemed so strange that I could scarcely believe
it! A conqueror, and gloriously wounded.
I smiled involuntarily as I bathed my eye,
which now saw black circles revolving in the
light, and which seemed to me to be tremendously
swelled! However I did not mind a black
eye or anything else: I had fought in a good
cause, and had conquered.
.bn p165.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.hr 25%
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch43
XLIII. || MY FATHER IS SATISFIED.
.sp 2
When I discovered that my coat had not
suffered in the fray I was quite contented, and
I returned home whistling as I went, for the
first time since I had been to college. What
balm victory spreads upon our wounds! By
the time I reached our house I merely seemed
to feel a little stiffness in my left eye. My
father was quite right when he said that
nothing was easier than to give a blow with
your fist. Nothing is easier, and nothing
easier than to receive one. In the twinkling
of an eye I had given one and had it returned;
though, for the life of me, I could not say how
it came about: and I do not therefore intend
to give a lecture upon the subject.
I would not have told my parents what had
taken place for anything in the world: they
would have been sure to ask what I had fought
about, and they would have felt hurt had they
.bn p166.png
.pn +1
known the reason. My mother, seeing that I
appeared troubled at her anxious inquiries
about my black eye, and that my replies were
evasive, thought it wiser not to question me
further; and my father dreamed so little that
his poor coward of a son could have received
his wounds in battle that he imagined every
possible reason for them rather than the true
one.
The news was now spread in the college
that Bicquerot was decidedly eccentric, that
he had curious fancies, and this was why
they thought so. I had allowed them all,
even the very little boys, to call me all sorts of
names and I had taken no notice, but had
appeared meek and gentle to a fault: I had
been called Azor, Toucan and Borniquet, and
had not stirred, but being once called a
beetle! my nature was changed, I became
furious, and hit out right and left, in the blindness
of my rage.
At the end of the term my father almost fell
off his chair when reading my report from the
college. All was well enough till he arrived at
.bn p167.png
.pn +1
the remarks upon my general conduct, and
then came the words “Very bad.”
“What does this mean?” inquired my
father in an angry tone of voice, marking,
with his thumb, the objectionable adjective.
As I did not reply, he read on the next
page the following words, “quarrelsome and
fond of fighting.” He appeared stupefied.
Could it be possible that my conduct was
described as very bad, because of my love of
fighting? He turned to me, and resting his
first finger on my chest, exclaimed, “You!
You have fought! Is it true?”
“Yes, papa,” I answered.
“Were you beaten?” he then inquired.
“No,” said I; “I gave some blows
with my fist, and had some given back to
me.”
“Real good blows?” cried my father,
“bang, bang?”
“Real good blows,” I answered.
“Often?” he asked.
“Well, yes, pretty often,” said I.
“What a young rascal!” said my father,
.bn p168.png
.pn +1
pretending to pinch my ear; and in a whisper
he continued: “kiss me, my boy!”
.sp 2
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.h2 id=ch44
XLIV. || EXTREMES ARE BAD.
.sp 2
It is often difficult for men—then how
much more so for boys—to avoid running
into extremes. I ought to have been contented
with being no longer a coward,
but alas! I was not, for I now became
somewhat of a bully. I grew excited and
furious at very little. It did not require
the opprobrious name of beetle to be applied
to me now in order to make me angry. The
time arrived when the least word would make
me begin a fight at once. I began to amuse
myself by frightening the smaller boys and
making them fly before me. And the big
boys, even, were very careful how they approached
me.
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[Illustration:Decoration]
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One day I called at Miss Porquet’s school
.bn p169.png
.pn +1
merely to see The Count. I found him—poor
creature, left still by his parents in this
baby school—standing in the playground
with his cap on one side and his hands in
his pockets. I stared at him from head to
foot, and asked him if he had any remark
to make about my coat, my trousers, my
neck-tie, or any part of my dress. And I
inquired if he was sure that he wouldn’t
like to come into a corner with me and learn
how they fought at college? He stared at
.bn p170.png
.pn +1
me with frightened eyes, declined my offer,
and rushed into the schoolroom, where he
locked himself in, screaming as loud as he
could. As for Brideau, I called him any nickname
I chose, and he dared not say anything.
But alas! I was puffed up with pride and
vanity! I used to look at myself in the glass
with admiration and respect, and murmur to
myself the words, “Bravest of the brave!”
But everything has a reverse side: the
“Bravest of the brave” unfortunately had his
ears one day well pulled by a footman whose
afternoon nap he disturbed by ringing a large
bell close to his head. The “Bravest of the
brave” one day had a dispute with a cur in
the street whose temper was more imperfect
than his teeth, the consequence of which was
that the brave one’s trowsers were shortened
on one leg by a foot, and his mamma had to
sit up half the night repairing the disaster.
Seeing which the “Bravest of the brave” cried
himself to sleep under the bed clothes, vowing
he would never disturb street dogs again.
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[Illustration:Decoration]
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The “Bravest of the brave” did not like
.bn p171.png
.pn +1
Robert Boissot, and lost no opportunity of
contradicting him and of being generally disagreeable
to him, in order to pay off old scores.
Alas! the brave one received from the said
Robert Boissot so violent a blow on the top of
his nose, that he was obliged to bury it in his
pocket-handkerchief and fly home amid shouts
of derision. The mischief done was very considerable,
the toucan’s beak had been so badly
treated that it was obliged to be wrapped up in
as many bandages as a mummy, and it was
.bn p172.png
.pn +1
more than three weeks before it could be
unrolled, and viewed again by the light of
day. When it was again displayed to the
eyes of the public it was discovered to lean
over considerably to one side.
They say that Michael-Angelo one day
received a blow on the nose from his friend
Torregiani. This knock on the nose changed
for ever the expression of the great man, and
made him morose and solitary. The knock on
my nose, given by Robert Boissot, also changed
my expression, and my character. During the
time that my nose was recovering itself I had
leisure to reflect. Those reflections changed
my ideas upon many subjects; and made me
wiser.
Little by little, I learned to live without
running into the extreme of either cowardice
or bullying; and my life passed much as the
lives of other people.
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.h2 id=ch45
XLV. || A LAST CHAPTER, WRITTEN BY ANOTHER HAND.
.sp 2
Here terminate the confessions of a
coward as told by himself. But I will add
some details respecting his after life which his
own modesty prevented him from relating.
When he says that his “life passed much as
the lives of other people,” he should have
added, “like the lives of those who, first
distinguishing themselves at the college of
Saint Cyr, follow a glorious career in the
army.”
When sub-lieutenant, Bicquerot was the
first to scale the walls of a certain Arab
village, and then received a severe sabre cut
which helped his promotion to lieutenant.
Lieutenant Bicquerot became captain without
any wounds, as he was then with his
regiment at Bordeaux, and not near any
fighting. As peace prevailed at that time and
.bn p174.png
.pn +1
he had not seen his parents since he left Saint
Cyr, he got leave; and then might be observed
by the worthy inhabitants of Loches, two
Captains Bicquerot walking arm-in-arm about
the streets.
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[Illustration:Decoration]
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Captain Bicquerot did his duty nobly at the
siege of Sebastopol. He was wounded by a
ball, and became insensible; when he regained
consciousness in the hospital he was shown
the rosette of the Legion of Honour which
now decorated his buttonhole, and was told
.bn p175.png
.pn +1
that he lost consciousness as a Captain, but
that he awoke to find himself Major.
At the commencement of the Italian campaign
Bicquerot was Lieutenant-Colonel. He
was made full Colonel at the battle of Magenta.
He owed this promotion to his extreme courage
and presence of mind displayed upon the
occasion. And he was publicly complimented
by the general in command.
On his return to France, Colonel Bicquerot
was sent to Tours with his regiment. He
often went over from thence to Loches to see
his beloved mother and father. Captain
Bicquerot called his son “the colonel” with
immense pride. His mother did not call him
“the colonel,” but how rejoiced she was
when “her Paul” came to see her, and on
Sunday gave her his arm to take her to
church.
Dr. Lombalot’s mind was greatly disturbed
while Colonel Bicquerot lived at Tours. He
would have liked him to live there always for
one reason, and that was because he played
chess so admirably, and often had a game with
.bn p176.png
.pn +1
the worthy doctor. But for the sake of his
phrenological theories the doctor would have
liked to see the colonel start for Cochin China.
For after having said that so distinguished an
officer was wanting in the bump of combativeness,
how could he talk of the truths of phrenology
again! However, he did talk of them,
though in his heart the obstinate old man could
not have believed in them.
At the time when Bicquerot and his friend
Marc Sublaine passed that happy holiday at
Bois-Clair, there was a little baby sister of
Marc’s being carried about by her nurse.
Miss Marie Sublaine was then cutting her first
teeth. As that young person, at that time of
her life, was of a somewhat misanthropical
turn of mind, and passed all her time in the
nursery, it is not to be wondered at, that “the
Coward” omitted to mention her when he
recounted his confessions. However, one
knows that, in general, young gentlemen of
nine or ten profess the most extreme contempt
for the society of babies; above all, babies
that have a habit, like Miss Marie Sublaine,
.bn p177.png
.pn +1
of crying for nothing, and of scratching
and biting the noses and fingers of their
friends.
Nevertheless Miss Marie Sublaine became
in time the wife of Colonel Bicquerot. And a
very happy couple they were.
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.nf c
THE END.
.nf-
.sp 4
.nf c
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
.nf-
.pb
.sp 4
.ul
.it Transcriber’s Notes:
.ul indent=1
.it Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
.it Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended.
.it Typographical errors were silently corrected.
.it Page 116, “Ulysses came up to us at a hand gallop.” was changed to\
“Ulysses came up to us at a hard gallop.”
.it Page 138, “as he lived near here I did” was changed to\
“as he lived near where I did”.
.it Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a\
predominant form was found in this book.
.if t
.it Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text in\
bold by “equal” signs (=bold=).
.if-
.ul-
.ul-