I do not mean merely the tender jealousy of the
heart, but that sterner, narrower sentiment whose seat is in the head.

I used to think, as I Sat looking at M. Paul, while he was knitting his
brow or protruding his lip over some exercise of mine, which had not as
many faults as he wished (for he liked me to commit faults: a knot of
blunders was sweet to him as a cluster of nuts), that he had points of
resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte. I think so still.

In a shameless disregard of magnanimity, he resembled the great
Emperor. M. Paul would have quarrelled with twenty learned women, would
have unblushingly carried on a system of petty bickering and
recrimination with a whole capital of coteries, never troubling himself
about loss or lack of dignity. He would have exiled fifty Madame de
Staels, if, they had annoyed, offended, outrivalled, or opposed him.

I well remember a hot episode of his with a certain Madame Panache--a
lady temporarily employed by Madame Beck to give lessons in history.
She was clever--that is, she knew a good deal; and, besides, thoroughly
possessed the art of making the most of what she knew; of words and
confidence she held unlimited command. Her personal appearance was far
from destitute of advantages; I believe many people would have
pronounced her "a fine woman;" and yet there were points in her robust
and ample attractions, as well as in her bustling and demonstrative
presence, which, it appeared, the nice and capricious tastes of M. Paul
could not away with. The sound of her voice, echoing through the carre,
would put him into a strange taking; her long free step--almost
stride--along the corridor, would often make him snatch up his papers
and decamp on the instant.

With malicious intent he bethought himself, one day, to intrude on her
class; as quick as lightning he gathered her method of instruction; it
differed from a pet plan of his own. With little ceremony, and less
courtesy, he pointed out what he termed her errors. Whether he expected
submission and attention, I know not; he met an acrid opposition,
accompanied by a round reprimand for his certainly unjustifiable
interference.

Instead of withdrawing with dignity, as he might still have done, he
threw down the gauntlet of defiance. Madame Panache, bellicose as a
Penthesilea, picked it up in a minute. She snapped her fingers in the
intermeddler's face; she rushed upon him with a storm of words. M.
Emanuel was eloquent; but Madame