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 ............