perhaps expected too much from it, and
finding that it was not boundless, had broken it as he would an idol.
At all events he was not one of those who, knowing how to love have
not known how to die. At times I fancy that I can see him in heaven
amid the hosts of rosy-hued angels which Correggio loved to paint: at
others, I imagine that the woman whom he might have taught to love
him to distraction is scourging him through all eternity. Where he was
unjust was in making his reason, which was in nowise to blame, suffer
for the perturbation of his uneasy nature (or spirit). He practised
the studied absurdity of Tertullian and emulated the exaltation of
St. Paul. His lectures on philosophy were an absolute travesty, as his
contempt for philosophy was made apparent in every sentence; and
M. Gosselin, who set great value upon the divinity of the schools,
quietly endeavoured to counteract his teaching. But fanaticism does
not always prevent people from being clear-sighted. M. Gottofrey
noticed something peculiar about me, and he detected that which had
escaped the paternal optimism of M. Gosselin. He stirred my conscience
to its very depths, as I shall presently explain, and with an
unrelenting hand tore asunder all the bandages with which I had
disguised even from myself the wounds of a faith already severely
stricken.

M. Pinault was very much like M. Littre in respect to his concentrated
passion and the originality of his ways. If M. Littre had received a
Catholic education, he would have gone to the extreme of mysticism; if
M. Pinault had not received a Catholic education he would have been
a revolutionist and positivist. Men of their stamp always go to
one extreme or another. The very physiognomy of M. Pinault arrested
attention. Eaten up by rheumatism, he seemed to embody in his person
all the ways in which a body may be contorted from its proper shape.
Ugly as he was, there was a marked expression of vigour about his
face; but in direct contrast to M. Gosselin, he was deplorably lacking
in cleanliness. While he was lecturing he would use his old cloak and
the sleeves of his cassock as if it were a duster to wipe up anything;
and his skull-cap, lined with cotton wool to protect him from
neuralgia, formed a very ugly border round his head. With all that he
was full of passion and eloquence, somewhat sarcastic at times, but
witty and incisive. He had little literary culture, but he often came
out with some unexpected sall