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.
one day i called at miss porquet’s school 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 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.
the “bravest of the brave” did not like 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 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.
