At Monsieur Clopet’s class he was well received by the young gentlemen there. He returned their salutations and an atmosphere of savoir faire prevailed. All were hard put to it to keep up their notes as a lecture progressed. Monsieur Clopet was gentle, polished, forceful. “One must work; that is what one is here for.” As a drill master he was a potent driver, as an expounder he made good his word to Louis in a method and a manner, revealing, inspiriting, as he calmly unfolded, step by step, a well reasoned process in his demonstrations which were so simple, so inclusive, so completely rounded as to preclude exception; and there was not a book in sight; but ever in sight was Monsieur Clopet, making something teachable out of what at first seemed an abstraction in three dimensions.
Louis was especially pleased at the novelty of saying je dis—“I say”—at the beginning of a demonstration. It humanized matters, brought them home, close up, a sort of challenge. How much more intelligent and lively to begin: “I say the sum of the angles of any triangle equals two right angles” than the formal impersonal statement: “The sum of the angles of any triangle equals two right angles.” The latter statement one may take or leave. The former is a personal assertion and implies, “I will show you.” In fact, it was this “I say” and this “I will show you” that made up the charm of Monsieur Clopet’s teaching method. For Louis had but little use for what is called “proof.” In his secret heart he did not believe that anything could be proved, but believed as firmly that many things might be shown. From long practice as listener and observer, he had reached this conclusion, and as time went on, in his studies he became convinced that all abstractions were assumptions—that abstract truth was a mirage. As Monsieur Clopet’s course covered mainly descriptive geometry and the science of arithmetic, with plain and solid geometry as incidentals, Louis met his bugbear in this very science of arithmetic. He seemed to bump his head against invisible walls, a blockade which seemed to hold him a prisoner to inner consciousness, instead of the free open of outward consciousness—a working of the intellect detached from reality—therefore detached from life; but it was an examination requirement, so Louis stuck to the treadmill and learned how, by “rigorous logic,” it might be proved that two and two make four. It was not that he lacked the sense that the study of numbers had its charm, and might exercise a fascination for those who had a mathematical career in view. It was against what he deemed the impertinence of rigid logic that he rebelled, for once we assume an abstraction to be real, he thought, we lose our anchorage which is in the real.
At the end of the first half hour Monsieur Clopet always called a recess. From his pocket he drew forth his pouch and his little book of rice papers; so did the others. There was sauntering, spectacular smoking and conversation. The cigarette finished, work was resumed. Louis thought this gay, immediately procured the findings, and learned to “roll his own.” After recess the students were put through their paces at the blackboard for the final half-hour.
For Louis all this was exhilarating. He soon felt he was making sure headway. His fellow pupils were most amiable, and began to remark upon his improving French. Early in the game, however, they had taken him in hand regarding his attire, for Louis had made his first appearance clad in a flannel suit, a white cap and white canvas shoes. They were serious about it. “We would have you know, friend, you are not properly dressed. You are a student now, an aspirant for the Beaux Arts. Only the working classes wear the casquette. Gentlemen wear the chapeau, and only sporting people wear such clothes and shoes. You shall dress like a student and be one of us.” As soon as it could be done, Louis appeared in tall silk hat, an infant beard, long tail coat, and trousers of dark material, polished shoes, kid gloves, and jaunty cane. Louis felt self-conscious, but he was met with so voluble a chorus of approval that he changed his tone, studied carefully the student manner so as to be one of them—they were such good fellows.
Swiftly fled the days; thus moved the work; nightly Louis sat in his room on the seventh, at his small desk, a candle at each side, black coffee and wet towel as aids. He codified the Clopet notes, arranged his French vocabulary, read history by the hour, for he knew this latter would be highly important; and so it went day and night—work, work, work. About midway in the game Louis’s brain seemed to be overcome by a fog. Everything was blurred as in a mist, his memory lost its grip. His knowledge of athletics told him he had overtrained and run stale. A three days’ change of scene and complete diversion put him right; memory returned, the mist lifted; after that, no trouble.
The great day of the Examinations was now near at hand. Louis’s French tutor had cautioned him to be careful not to use slang when addressing the professors; and Monsieur Clopet had said in open class, “I don’t know as to the rest of you, but there is one among you who will pass brilliantly in his mathematics, and he is an American.”
So, several days before the examinations, which were to begin early in October, Louis stopped all work, relaxed completely, and, in a state of confidence amused himself with the sights and sounds of Paris, and
