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.