He lost no time in calling upon Monsieur Clopet. He was greeted in simple gracious words by a small dark man, who, to Louis’s joy, spoke only French. The preliminaries over, Monsieur Clopet asked: “And what are the books you have under your arm?”
Louis replied: “Books I was told at the American legation I would need.”
“Ah, yes, let me see them.” He took the books, selected a large work on Descriptive Geometry, and began to turn the pages. “Now observe: Here is a problem with five exceptions or special cases; here a theorem, three special cases; another nine, and so on and on, a procession of exceptions and special cases. I suggest you place the book in the waste basket; we shall not need of it here; for here our demonstrations shall be so broad as to admit of no exception!”
At these amazing words Louis stood as one whose body had turned to hot stone, while his brain was raging. Instantly the words had flashed, there arose a vision and a fixed resolve; an instantaneous inquiry and an instant answer. The inquiry: If this can be done in Mathematics, why not in Architecture? The instant answer: It can, and it shall be! no one has—I will! It may mean a long struggle; longer and harder than the tramp through the forest of Brown’s Tract. It may be years from now, before I find what I seek, but I shall find it, if otherwhere and otherwise, with or without guide other than my flair, my will and my apprehension. It shall be done! I shall live for that!—no one, no thing, no thousand shall deter me. The world of men, of thoughts, of things, shall be mine. Firmly I believe that if I can but interpret it, that world is filled with evidence. I shall explore that world to seek, to find. I shall weigh that world in a balance. I shall question it, I shall examine and cross-examine, I shall finally interpret—I shall not be withheld, I shall prevail!
During the immense seconds of this eidolon, Louis found himself shaking hands with Monsieur Clopet in parting, promising to join his class on the morrow. This he did. The class consisted of about twenty young men, mostly French, a few from other lands, no Englanders, no other American. Louis wished an exclusively French atmosphere—he was beginning feebly to think in French and wished no disturbance of the process. He had told his French tutor that he knew the grammar by heart and could conjugate all the irregular verbs; that what he wished, and he wished it done in a hurry, was to acquire the language of the man on the street first of all, to acquire what fluency he might in the short time before him, to increase his vocabulary, a hundred new words memorized every day. It must be talk, talk, talk, and read, read, read, to each other—daily papers, general history in particular, read aloud to each other, read and correct, talk and correct, and hammer away in the sweat of their brows. His tutor could not long stand the pace and begged to be excused. Louis got another, wore him out. The third one stuck. He saw into Louis’s plan and it amused him greatly, so much so that he joined in, jovially, and made a play of it. A petit verre started him off nicely. He possessed a rare art of conversation, was full of anecdote, personal incident and reminiscence, knew his Paris, had the sense of comedy to a degree, looked upon life as a huge joke, upon all persons as jokes, and upon Louis as such in particular—he would amuse himself with this frantic person. At once he spoke to Louis en camarade, vieux copain, as one Frenchman to another. He made running comments on the news of the day, explained all sorts of things Louis was beginning to note in Paris life, put him in the running. He had a gift of mimicry, would imitate the provincial dialects and peasant jargon, with fitting tone and gesture, and, taking a given topic or incident, would relate it in terms and impersonations ranging in series from gamin to Academician. In these moods he was simply “killing.” And when Louis told a story, he would mimic it delightfully. But the man knew his French, and spread out the language before Louis in a sort of landscape which awoke imagination. At times he would wax eloquent concerning his mother tongue, as he revealed its resources and its beauty, its clarity, its precision, its fluidity, and he earnestly advised Louis that he must without fail go each Sunday to the Church of St. Roch, there to hear in the sermon the marvelous beauty of the language, as uttered there by one who, through lifelong discipline, had attained to its perfection of form and vocal melody.
This tutor man suited Louis; he was wholly human, and well versed. Also well built, well under middle age, seldom sat for long, but paced the floor, or lolled here or there by moments. His voice was suave, his manner frank
