sang "Le Chant du Départ" as well as he could for laughing:
"La victoire en chantant nous ouvre la carrière!
La liberté‑é gui‑i‑de nos pas" …
while Lord A. went through an expressive pantomime of an overladen foot‑soldier up and down the room, in time to the music. The only person who didn't laugh was James—which I thought ungenial.
Then Lady A. had her innings, and sang "Rule Britannia, Britannia rule de vaves"—and declared it was far more ridiculous really than the "Chant du Départ," and she made it seem so, for she went through a pantomime too. She was a most delightful person, and spoke English quite well when she chose; and seemed as fond of Barty as if he were her own and only son—and so did Lord Archibald. She would say:
"Quel dommage qu'on ne peut pas avoir des crompettes [crumpets]! Barty les aime tant! n'est‑ce pas, mon chou, tu aimes bien les crompettes? voici venir du buttered toast—c'est toujours ça!"
And, "Mon Dieu, comme il a bonne mine, ce cher Barty—n'est‑ce pas, mon amour, que tu as bonne mine? regarde‑toi dans la glace."
And, "Si nous allions à l'Hippodrôme cette après‑midi voir la belle écuyère Madame Richard? Barty adore les jolies femmes, comme son oncle! n'est‑ce pas, méchant petit Barty, que tu adores les jolies femmes? et tu n'as jamais vu Madame Richard? Tu m'en diras des nouvelles! et vous, mon ami [this to me], est‑ce que vous adorez aussi les jolies femmes?"
"Ô oui," says Daphne, "allons voir M'ame Richard; it'll be such fun! oh, bully!"
So after breakfast we went for a walk, and to a café on the Quai d'Orsay, and then to the HippodrÔme, and saw the beautiful écuyère in graceful feats of la haute école, and lost our hearts—especially Lord Archibald, though him she knew; for she kissed her hand to him, and he his to her.
Then we dined at the Palais Royal, and afterwards went to the Café des Aveugles, an underground coffee‑house near the Café de la Rotonde, and where blind men made instrumental music; and we had a capital evening.
I have met in my time more intellectual people, perhaps, than the Archibald Rohans—but never people more amiable, or with kinder, simpler manners, or who made one feel more quickly and thoroughly at home—and the more I got to know them, the more I grew to like them; and their fondness for each other and Daphne, and for Barty too, was quite touching; as was his for them. So the winter sped happily till February, when a sad thing happened.
I had spent Sunday with my mother and sister, who now lived on the ground‑floor of 108 Champs Élysées.
I slept there that Sunday night, and walked back to school next morning. To my surprise, as I got to a large field through which a diagonal footpath led to Père Jaurion's loge, I saw five or six boys sitting on the terrace parapet with their legs dangling outside. They should have been in class, by rights. They watched me cross the field, but made no sign.
"What on earth can be the matter?" thought I.
The cordon was pulled, and I came on a group of boys all stiff and silent.
"Qu'est‑ce que vous avez donc, tous?" I asked.
"Le Père Brossard est mort!" said De Villars.
Poor M. Brossard had died of apoplexy on the previous afternoon. He had run to catch the Passy omnibus directly after lunch, and had fallen down in a fit and died immediately.
"Il est tombé du haut mal"—as they expressed it.
His son Mérovée and his daughter Madame Germain were distracted. The whole of that day was spent by the boys in a strange, unnatural state of désœuvrement and suppressed excitement for which no outlet was possible. The meals, especially, were all but unbearable. One was ashamed of having an appetite, and yet one had—almost keener than usual, if I may judge by myself—and for some undiscovered reason the food was better than on other Mondays!
Next morning we all went up in sorrowful procession to kiss our poor dear head‑master's cold forehead as he lay dead in his bed, with sprigs of boxwood on his pillow, and above his head a jar of holy water with which we sprinkled him. He looked very serene and majestic, but it was a harrowing ceremony. Mérovée stood by with swollen eyes and deathly pale—incarnate grief.
On Wednesday afternoon M. Brossard was buried in the Cimetière de Passy, a tremendous crowd following the hearse; the boys and masters just behind Mérovée and M. Germain, the chief male mourners. The women walked in another separate procession behind.
Béranger and Alphonse Karr were present among the notabilities, and speeches were made over his open grave, for he was a very distinguished man.
And, tragical to relate, that evening in the study Barty and I fell out, and it led to a stand‑up fight next day.
There was no preparation that evening; he and I sat side by side reading out of a book by Châteaubriand—either Atala, or René or Les Natchez, I forget which. I have never seen either since.
The study was hushed; M. Dumollard was de service as maître d'études, although there was no attempt to do anything but sadly read improving books.
If I remember aright, René, a very sentimental young Frenchman, who had loved the wrong person not wisely, but too well (a very wrong person indeed, in his case), emigrated to North America, and there he met a beautiful Indian maiden, one Atala, of the Natchez tribe, who had rosy heels and was charming, and whose entire skin was probably a warm dark red, although this is not insisted upon. She also had a brother, whose name was Outogamiz.
Well, René loved Atala, Atala loved René, and they were married; and Outogamiz went through some ceremony besides, which made him blood brother and bosom friend to René—a bond which involved certain obligatory rites and duties and self‑sacrifices.
Atala died and was buried. René died and was buried also; and every day, as in duty bound, poor Outogamiz went and pricked a vein and bled over Rene's tomb, till he died himself of exhaustion before he was many weeks older. I quote entirely from memory.
This simple story was told in very touching and beautiful language, by no means telegraphese, and Barty and I were deeply affected by it.
"I say, Bob!" Barty whispered to me, with a break in his voice, "some day I'll marry your sister, and we'll all go off to America together, and she'll die, and I'll die, and you shall bleed yourself to death on my tomb!"
"No," said I, after a moment's thought. "No—look here! I'll marry your sister, and I'll die, and you shall bleed over my tomb!"
Then, after a pause:
"I haven't got a sister, as you know quite well—and if I had she wouldn't be for you!" says Barty.
"Why not?"
"Because you're not good‑looking enough!" says Barty.
At this, just for fun, I gave him a nudge in the wind with my elbow—and he gave me a "twisted pinch" on the arm—and I kicked him on the ankle, but so much harder than I intended that it hurt him, and he gave me a tremendous box on the ear, and we set to fighting like a couple of wild‑cats, without even getting up, to the scandal of the whole study and the indignant disgust of M. Dumollard, who separated us, and read us a pretty lecture:
"Voilà bien les Anglais!—rien n'est sacré pour eux, pas même la mort! rien que les chiens et les chevaux." (Nothing, not even death, is sacred to Englishmen—nothing but dogs and horses.)
When we went up to bed the head‑boy of the school—a first‑rate boy called d'Orthez, and Berquin (another first‑rate boy), who had each a bedroom to himself, came into the dormitory and took up the quarrel, and discussed what should be done. Both of us were English—ergo, both of us ought to box away the insult with our fists; so "they set a combat us between, to fecht it in the dawing"—that is, just after breakfast, in the school‑room.
I