One evening in summer the bookbinder was enjoying the fresh air
before his door when a big man with a red nose, past middle age and
wearing a scarlet waistcoat stained with grease-spots, appeared,
bowing politely and confidentially, and addressed him in a sing-song
voice in which even Monsieur Servien could detect an Italian
accent:
"Sir, I have translated the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, the immortal
masterpiece of Torquato Tasso"--and a bulging packet of manuscript
under his arm confirmed the statement.
"Yes, sir, I have devoted sleepless nights to this glorious and
ungrateful task. Without family or fatherland, I have written my
translation in dark, ice-cold garrets, on chandlers' wrappers,
snuff papers, the backs of playing cards! Such has been the exile's
task! You, sir, you live in your own land, in the bosom of a
happy family--at least I hope so."
This speech, which impressed him by its magniloquence and its
strangeness, set the bookbinder dreaming of the dead woman he
had loved, and he saw her in his mind's eye coiling her beautiful
hair as in the early days of their married life.
The big man proceeded:
"Man is like a plant which perishes when the storms uproot it.
"Here is your son, is it not so? He is like you"--and laying
his hand on Jean's head, who clung to his father's coat-tails
in wonder at the red waistcoat and the sing-song voice, he asked
if the child learned his lessons well, if he was growing up to
be a clever man, if he would not soon be beginning Latin.
"That noble language," he added, "whose inimitable monuments have
often made me forget my misfortunes.
"Yes, sir, I have often breakfasted on a page of Tacitus and supped
on a satire of Juvenal."
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.