As he said the words, a look of sadness over-spread his shining red face, and dropping his voice: 

“Forgive me, sir, if I hold out to you the casque of Belisarius.  I am the Marquis Tudesco, of Venice.  When I have received from the bookseller the price of my labour, I will not forget that you succoured me with a small coin in the time of my sharpest trial.”

The bookbinder, case-hardened as he was against beggars, who on winter evenings drifted into his shop with the east wind, nevertheless experienced a certain sympathy and respect for the Marquis Tudesco.  He slipped a franc-piece into his hand.

Thereupon the old Italian, like a man inspired, exclaimed: 

“One Nation there is that is unhappy—­Italy, one generous People—­France; and one bond that unites the twain—­humanity.  Ah! chiefest of the virtues, humanity, humanity!”

Meantime the bookbinder was pondering his wife’s last words:  “I wish my Jean to learn Latin.”  He hesitated, till seeing Monsieur Tudesco bowing and smiling to go: 

“Sir,” he said, “if you are ready, two or three times a week, to give the boy lessons in French and Latin, we might come to terms.”

The Marquis Tudesco expressed no surprise.  He smiled and said: 

“Certainly, sir, as you wish it, I shall find it a delightful task to initiate your son in the mysteries of the Latin rudiments.

“We will make a man of him and a good citizen, and God knows what heights my pupil will scale in this noble land of freedom and generosity.  He may one day be ambassador, my dear sir.  I say it:  knowledge is power.”

“You will know the shop again,” said the bookbinder; “there is my name on the signboard.”

The Marquis Tudesco, after tweaking the son’s ear amicably and bowing to the father with a dignified familiarity, walked away with a step that was still jaunty.

IV

The Marquis Tudesco returned in due course, smiled at Mademoiselle Servien, who darted poisonous looks at him, greeted the bookbinder with a discreet air of patronage, and had a supply of grammars and dictionaries bought.

At first he gave his lessons with exemplary regularity.  He had taken a liking to these repetitions of nouns and verbs, which he listened to with a dignified, condescending air, slowly unrolling his screw of snuff the while; he only interrupted to interject little playful remarks with a geniality just touched with a trace of ferocity, that bespoke his real nature as an unctuous, cringing bully.  He was jocular and pompous at the same time, and always made a pretence of being a long time in seeing the glass of wine put on the table for his refreshment.