n,
that he made my brain reel. Still, I loved to plunge into that realm
of mystery, invisible to the senses, in which every one likes to dwell,
whether he pictures it to himself under the indefinite ideal of the
Future, or clothes it in the more solid guise of romance. These violent
revulsions of the mind on itself gave me, without my knowing it, a
comprehension of its power, and accustomed me to the workings of the
mind.

Lambert himself explained everything by his theory of the angels. To him
pure love--love as we dream of it in youth--was the coalescence of two
angelic natures. Nothing could exceed the fervency with which he longed
to meet a woman angel. And who better than he could inspire or feel
love? If anything could give an impression of an exquisite nature,
was it not the amiability and kindliness that marked his feelings, his
words, his actions, his slightest gestures, the conjugal regard that
united us as boys, and that we expressed when we called ourselves
_chums_?

There was no distinction for us between my ideas and his. We imitated
each other's handwriting, so that one might write the tasks of
both. Thus, if one of us had a book to finish and to return to the
mathematical master, he could read on without interruption while the
other scribbled off his exercise and imposition. We did our tasks as
though paying a task on our peace of mind. If my memory does not play
me false, they were sometimes of remarkable merit when Lambert did
them. But on the foregone conclusion that we were both of us idiots, the
master always went through them under a rooted prejudice, and even kept
them to read to be laughed at by our schoolfellows.

I remember one afternoon, at the end of the lesson, which lasted from
two till four, the master took possession of a page of translation by
Lambert. The passage began with _Caius Gracchus, vir nobilis_; Lambert
had construed this by "Caius Gracchus had a noble heart."

"Where do you find 'heart' in _nobilis_?" said the Father sharply.

And there was a roar of laughter, while Lambert looked at the master in
some bewilderment.

"What would Madame la Baronne de Stael say if she could know that you
make such nonsense of a word that means noble family, of patrician
rank?"

"She would say that you were an ass!" said I in a muttered tone.

"Master Poet, you will stay in for a week," replied the master, who
unfortunately overheard me.

Lambert simply repeated, looking at me with in