"De Paris a Versailles, loo, la,
De Paris a Versailles--
Il y a de belles allees,
Vive le Roi de France!
Il y a de belles allees,
Vivent les ecoliers!"
One sultry Saturday afternoon in the summer of 1847 I sat at my desk
in the junior school-room, or _salle d'etudes des petits_, of the
Institution F. Brossard, Rond-point de l'Avenue de St.-Cloud; or, as
it is called now, Avenue du Bois de Boulogne--or, as it was called
during the Second Empire, Avenue du Prince Imperial, or else de
l'Imperatrice; I'm not sure.
There is not much stability in such French names, I fancy; but their
sound is charming, and always gives me the nostalgia of Paris--Royal
Paris, Imperial Paris, Republican Paris!... whatever they may call
it ten or twelve years hence. Paris is always Paris, and always will
be, in spite of the immortal Haussmann, both for those who love it
and for those who don't.
All the four windows were open. Two of them, freely and frankly, on
to the now deserted play-ground, admitting the fragrance of lime and
syringa and lilac, and other odors of a mixed quality.
Two other windows, defended by an elaborate network of iron wire and
a formidable array of spiked iron rails beyond, opened on to the
Rond-point, or meeting of the cross-roads--one of which led
northeast to Paris through the Arc de Triomphe; the other three
through woods and fields and country lanes to such quarters of the
globe as still remain. The world is wide.
In the middle of this open space a stone fountain sent up a jet of
water three feet high, which fell back with a feeble splash into the
basin beneath. There was comfort in the sound on such a hot day, and
one listened for it half unconsciously; and tried not to hear,
instead, Weber's "Invitation a la Valse," which came rippling in
intermittent waves from the open window of the distant _parloir_,
where Chardonnet was practising the piano.
"Tum-te-dum-tum-tum ...
Tum-te-dum-di, diddle-iddle um!"
_e da capo_, again and again. Chardonnet was no heaven-born
musician.
Monsieur Bonzig--or "le Grand Bonzig," as he was called behind his
back--sat at his table on the estrade, correcting the exercises of
the eighth class (huitieme), which he coached in Latin and French.
It was the lowest class in the school; yet one learnt much in it
that was of consequence; not, indeed, that Balbus built a wall--as
I'm told we learn over here (a small matter to make such a fuss
about, after so many years)--but that the Lord made heaven and earth
in six days, and rested on the seventh.
He (Monsieur Bonzig) seemed hot and weary, as well he might, and
sighed, and looked up every now and then to mop his brow and think.
And as he gazed into the green and azure depths beyond the north
window, his dark brown eyes quivered and vibrated from side to side
through his spectacles with a queer quick tremolo, such as I have
never seen in any eyes but his.
[Illustration: INSTITUTION F. BROSSARD]
About five-and-twenty boys sat at their desks; boys of all ages between
seven and fourteen--many with closely cropped hair, "a la malcontent,"
like nice little innocent convicts; and nearly all in blouses, mostly
blue; some with their garments loosely flowing; others confined at the
waist by a tricolored ceinture de gymnastique, so deep and stiff it
almost amounted to stays.
As for the boys themselves, some were energetic and
industrious--some listless and lazy and lolling, and quite languid
with the heat--some fidgety and restless, on the lookout for
excitement of any kind: a cab or carriage raising the dust on its
way to the Bois--a water-cart laying it (there were no hydrants
then); a courier bearing royal despatches, or a mounted orderly; the
Passy omnibus, to or fro every ten or twelve minutes; the marchand
de coco with his bell; a regiment of the line with its band; a
chorus of peripatetic Orpheonistes--a swallow, a butterfly, a
humblebee; a far-off balloon, oh, joy!--any sight or sound to
relieve the tedium of those two mortal school-hours that dragged
their weary lengths from half past one till half past three--every
day but Sunday and Thursday.
(Even now I find the early afternoon a little trying to wear through
without a nap, say from two to four.)
At 3.30 there would come a half-hour's interval of play, and then
the class of French literature from four till dinner-time at six--a
class that was more than endurable on account of the liveliness and
charm of Monsieur Durosier, who journeyed all the way from the
College de France every Saturday afternoon in June and July to tell
us boys of the quatrieme all about Villon and Ronsard, and Marot and
Charles d'Orleans (_exceptis excipiendis_, of course), and other
pleasant people who didn't deal in Greek or Latin or mathematics,
and knew better than to trouble themselves overmuch about formal
French grammar and niggling French prosody.
Besides, everything was pleasant on a Saturday afternoon on account
of the nearness of the day of days--
"And that's the day that comes between
The Saturday and Monday"....
in France.