exasperating to
me, by rights, if to anybody) naturally made a slight bustle--M. Paul
became irritated, and dismissing his forced equanimity, and casting to
the winds that dignity and self-control with which he never cared long
to encumber himself, he broke forth into the strain best calculated to
give him ease.

I don't know how, in the progress of his "discours," he had contrived
to cross the Channel and land on British ground; but there I found him
when I began to listen.

Casting a quick, cynical glance round the room--a glance which scathed,
or was intended to scathe, as it crossed me--he fell with fury upon
"les Anglaises."

Never have I heard English women handled as M. Paul that morning
handled them: he spared nothing--neither their minds, morals, manners,
nor personal appearance. I specially remember his abuse of their tall
stature, their long necks, their thin arms, their slovenly dress, their
pedantic education, their impious scepticism(!), their insufferable
pride, their pretentious virtue: over which he ground his teeth
malignantly, and looked as if, had he dared, he would have said
singular things. Oh! he was spiteful, acrid, savage; and, as a natural
consequence, detestably ugly.

"Little wicked venomous man!" thought I; "am I going to harass myself
with fears of displeasing you, or hurting your feelings? No, indeed;
you shall be indifferent to me, as the shabbiest bouquet in your
pyramid."

I grieve to say I could not quite carry out this resolution. For some
time the abuse of England and the English found and left me stolid: I
bore it some fifteen minutes stoically enough; but this hissing
cockatrice was determined to sting, and he said such things at
last--fastening not only upon our women, but upon our greatest names
and best men; sullying, the shield of Britannia, and dabbling the union
jack in mud--that I was stung. With vicious relish he brought up the
most spicy current continental historical falsehoods--than which
nothing can be conceived more offensive. Zelie, and the whole class,
became one grin of vindictive delight; for it is curious to discover
how these clowns of Labassecour secretly hate England. At last, I
struck a sharp stroke on my desk, opened my lips, and let loose this
cry:--

"Vive l'Angleterre, l'Histoire et les Heros! A bas la France, la
Fiction et les Faquins!"

The class was struck of a heap. I suppose they thought me mad. The
Professor put up his handkerchief, and fi