rian. He is always standing near his books, dusting them, turning over the leaves, looking over the bindings. It is something to see the care with which he opens them, with his big, stubby hands, and blows between the pages: then they seem perfectly new again. I have worn out all of mine. It is a delight for him to polish off every new book that he buys, to put it in its place, and to pick it up again to take another look at it from all sides, and to brood over it as a treasure. He showed me nothing else for a whole hour. His eyes were troubling him, because he had read too much. His father, who is large and thickset like himself, with a big head like his, and who happened to come in the room, gave him two or three taps on the nape of the neck, saying with that huge voice of his:—
“What do you think of him, eh? of this head of bronze? It is a stout head, that will succeed in anything, I assure you!”
And Stardi half closed his eyes, under these rough caresses, like a big hunting-dog. I do not know why, but I did not dare to jest with him; I could not realize that he was only a year older than myself. And when he said to me, “Farewell until we meet again,” at the door, with that funny face of his, I came very near replying, “I salute you, sir,” as to a man.
I told my father afterwards, at home: “I don't understand it; Stardi has no natural talent, he lacks fine manners, and his face is almost ridiculous; yet he inspires me with respect.”
“It is because he has character,” replied my father. And I added, “During the hour that I spent with him he did not utter fifty words, he did not show me a single
