But no! my father was not wrong; for I loved him with all my heart, in spite of his fits of anger, and I would never have deceived him in anything. If he had beaten me, I felt that I could never have loved him so much again. I should, most likely, have become a liar like Robert Boissot. For, after all, the old school system had not succeeded so well with him. It is true that when his father was present, he was all that could be desired in a boy; one would have thought he was on parade too, because of his soldier-like bearing. But when his father turned his back, matters were, indeed, very different. He spoke of the colonel in the most disrespectful way; and I will not repeat here the dreadful untruths which he would utter without the slightest shame. It is true I was a coward, but they might have killed me outright, before I would have said the things of my parents, that he said of his. And he would laugh while he said them! Actually laugh.

Before his father, the colonel, this boy would pretend to be most friendly to me: he would call me his “dear good little Paul.” If I had dared I would have called him a liar before everybody; for when his father was not there, he would take me into a corner, and make the most hideous faces at me, and pull my poor long nose, till I cried; threatening at the same time, if I told anyone, that he would squeeze me to death in the doorway.

Was not this cowardice? but of a different kind from mine, and surely a far worse kind. “Ah! if I dared to do things, if I could only get over the nervous trembling and that stupid imagination of mine which showed me dangers in every direction!” I said this to myself as I walked slowly down stairs; I did not hurry myself, because my eyes were red, and I was anxious my mother should not see that I had been crying, for I knew it would worry her.

These are the questions I asked myself as I reached the last step:—“In a small house like this, where I know every corner, why do I fancy that somebody is always hiding to pounce out upon me? why do I fancy this when I really know that there is no one and nothing to frighten me? Why do I fancy always that there are strange beasts lurking in the shadows which will jump out upon me to pinch and bite, and prick and scratch me, or perhaps, which is almost worse, place a great hairy paw upon my neck, or look at me with great dreadful eyes? Why am I so silly as to fancy all this? But now, for the future, I am resolved I will never be so foolish again.”