“Ah!” he cried, springing from his seat, “and what profit did the immortal and ill-starred Torquato Tasso win from all his genius?  A few stolen kisses on the steps of a palace.  And he died of famine in a madhouse.  I say it:  the world’s opinion, that empress of humankind, I will tear from her her crown and sceptre.  Opinion tyrannizes over unhappy Italy, as over all the earth.  Italy! what flaming sword will one day come to break her fetters, as now I break this chair?”

In fact, he had seized his chair by the back and was pounding it fiercely on the floor.

But suddenly he stopped, gave a knowing smile, and said in a low voice: 

“No, no, Marquis Tudesco, let be, let Venice be a prey to Teuton savagery.  The fetters of the fatherland are daily bread to the exiled patriot.”

His chin buried in his cravat, he stood chuckling to himself, and his red waistcoat rose and fell in jerks.

Mademoiselle Servien, who sat by at the lesson knitting a stocking and for some moments had been watching the tutor, her spectacles pushed half-way up her forehead, with a look of amazement and suspicion, exclaimed, as if talking to herself: 

“If it isn’t abominable to come to people’s houses in drink!”

Monsieur Tudesco did not seem to hear her.  His manner was quiet and jocular again.

“Child,” he ordered, “write down the theme for an essay.  Write down:  ‘The worst thing... yes, the worst thing of all,’ write it down... ‘is an old woman with a spiteful temper.’”

And rising with the gracious dignity of a Prince of the Church, he bowed low to the aunt, gave the nephew’s cheek a friendly tap, and marched out of the room.

However, beginning with the very next lesson, he lavished every mark of respect on the old lady, and treated her to all his choicest airs and graces, rounding his elbows, pursing his lips, strutting and swaggering.  She would not relax a muscle, and sat there as silent and sulky as an owl.

But one day when she was hunting for her spectacles, as she was always doing, Monsieur Tudesco offered her his and persuaded her to try them; she found they suited her sight and felt a trifle less unamiable towards him.  The Italian, pursuing his advantage, got into talk with her, and artfully turned the conversation upon the vices of the rich.  The old lady approved his sentiments, and an exchange of petty confidences ensued.  Tudesco knew a sovereign remedy for catarrh, and this too was well received.  He redoubled his attentions, and the concierge, who saw him smiling to himself on the doorstep, told Aunt Servien:  “The man’s in love with you.”  Of course she declared:  “At my time of life a woman doesn’t want lovers,” but her vanity was tickled all the same.  Monsieur Tudesco got what he wanted—­to have his glass filled to the brim every lesson.  Out of politeness they would even leave him the pint jug only half empty, which he was indiscreet enough to drain dry.