“The forty-seventh proposition!” said Professor Roveni, in a tone of mild sarcasm, as he unfolded a paper which I had extracted, very gingerly, from an urn standing on his desk. Then he showed it to the Government Inspector who stood beside him, and whispered something into his ear. Finally, he handed me the document, so that I might read the question with my own eyes.
“Go up to the blackboard,” added the Professor, rubbing his hands.
The candidate who had preceded me in the arduous trial, and had got out of it as best he could, had left the school-room on tiptoe, and, in opening the door, let in a long streak of sunshine, which flickered on wall and floor, and in which I had the satisfaction of seeing my shadow. The door closed again, and the room was once more plunged into twilight. It was a stifling day in August, and the great sun-blinds of blue canvas were a feeble defence against the glass, so that the Venetian shutters had been closed as well. The little light which remained was concentrated on the master’s desk and the blackboard, and was, at any rate, sufficient to illuminate my defeat.
“Go to the blackboard and draw the figure,” repeated Professor Roveni, perceiving my hesitation.
Tracing the figure was the only thing I knew how to do; so I took a piece of chalk and conscientiously went to work. I was in no hurry; the more time I took up in this graphic part, the less remained for oral explanation.
But the Professor was not the man to lend himself to my innocent artifice.
“Make haste,” he said. “You are not going to draw one of Raphael’s Madonnas.”
I had to come to an end.
“Put the letters now. Quick!—you are not giving specimens of handwriting. Why did you erase that G?”