* * * * *
Then back to Le Gue des Aulnes. And one evening, after a good supper
at Grandmaman Laferte's, the diligence de Paris came jingling and
rumbling through the main street of La Tremblaye, flashing right and
left its two big lamps, red and blue. And we three boys, after the
most grateful and affectionate farewells, packed ourselves into the
coupe, which had been retained for us, and rumbled back to Paris
through the night.
There was quite a crowd to see us off. Not only Lafertes, but
others--all sorts and conditions of men, women, and children--and
among them three or four of Barty's charcoal-burning friends; one of
whom, an old man with magnificent black eyes and an immense beard,
that would have been white if he hadn't been a charcoal-burner,
kissed Barty on both cheeks, and gave him a huge bag full of some
kind of forest berry that is good to eat; also a young cuckoo (which
Barty restored to liberty an hour later); also a dormouse and a
large green lizard; also, in a little pasteboard box, a gigantic
pale green caterpillar four inches long and thicker than your thumb,
with a row of shiny blue stars in relief all along each side of its
back--the most beautiful thing of the kind you ever saw.
"Pioche bien ta geometrie, mon bon petit Josselin! c'est la plus
belle science au monde, crois-moi!" said M. Laferte to Barty, and
gave him the hug of a grizzly-bear; and to me he gave a terrific
hand-squeeze, and a beautiful double-barrelled gun by Lefaucheux,
for which I felt too supremely grateful to find suitable thanks. I
have it now, but I have long given up killing things with it.
I had grown immensely fond of this colossal old "bourru
bienfaisant," as he was called in La Tremblaye, and believe that all
his moroseness and brutality were put on, to hide one of the
warmest, simplest, and tenderest hearts in the world.
Before dawn Barty woke up with such a start that he woke me:
"Enfin! ca y est! quelle chance!" he exclaimed.
"Quoi, quoi, quoi?" said I, quacking like a duck.
"Le nord--c'est revenu--it's just ahead of us--a little to the
left!"
We were nearing Paris.
And thus ended the proudest and happiest time I ever had in my life.
Indeed I almost had an adventure on my own account--_une bonne
fortune_, as it was called at Brossard's by boys hardly older than
myself. I did not brag of it, however, when I got back to school.
It was at "Les Laiteries," or "Les Poteries," or "Les Crucheries,"
or some such place, the charming abode of Monsieur et Madame
Pelisson--only their name wasn't Pelisson, or anything like it. At
dinner I sat next to a Miss ----, who was very tall and wore blond
side ringlets. I think she must have been the English governess.
We talked very much together, in English; and after dinner we walked
in the garden together by starlight arm in arm, and she was so kind
and genial to me in English that I felt quite chivalrous and
romantic, and ready to do doughty deeds for her sake.
Then, at M. Pelisson's request, all the company assembled in a group
for evening prayer, under a spreading chestnut-tree on the lawn: the
prayer sounded very much like the morning or evening prayer at
Brossard's, except that the Almighty was addressed as "toi" instead
of "vous"; it began:
"Notre Pere qui es aux cieux--toi dont le regard scrutateur penetre
jusque dans les replis les plus profonds de nos coeurs"--and ended,
"Ainsi soit-il!"
The night was very dark, and I stood close to Miss ----, who stood
as it seemed with her hands somewhere behind her back. I was so
grateful to her for having talked to me so nicely, and so fond of
her for being English, that the impulse seized me to steal my hand
into hers--and her hand met mine with a gentle squeeze which I
returned; but soon the pressure of her hand increased, and by the
time M. le Cure had got to "au nom du Pere" the pressure of her hand
had become an agony--a thing to make one shriek!
"Ainsi soit-il!" said M. le Cure, and the little group broke up, and
Miss ---- walked quietly indoors with her arm around Madame
Pelisson's waist, and without even wishing me good-night--and my
hand was being squeezed worse than ever.
"Ah ha! Lequel de nous deux est vole, petit coquin?" hissed an angry
male voice in my ear--(which of us two is sold, you little rascal?).
And I found my hand in that of Monsieur Pelisson, whose name was
something else--and I couldn't make it out, nor why he was so angry.
It has dawned upon me since that each of us took the other's hand by
Mistake for that of the English governess!
All this is beastly and cynical and French, and I apologize for
it--but it's true.
* * * * *
October!
It was a black Monday for me when school began again after that
ideal vacation. The skies they were ashen and sober, and the leaves
they were crisped and sere. But anyhow I was still _en quatrieme_,
and Barty was in it too--and we sat next to each other in "L'etude
des grands."
There was only one etude now; only half the boys came back, and the
pavillon des petits was shut up, study, class-rooms, dormitories,
and all--except that two masters slept there still.
[Illustration: MEROVEE RINGS THE BELL]
Eight or ten small boys were put in a small school-room in the same
house as ours, and had a small dormitory to themselves, with M.
Bonzig to superintend them.
I made up my mind that I would no longer be a _cancre_ and a
_cretin_, but work hard and do my little best, so that I might keep
up with Barty and pass into the _troisieme_ with him, and then into
_Rhetorique_ (seconde), and then into _Philosophie_ (premiere)--that
we might do our humanities and take our degree together--our
"_Bachot_," which is short for _Baccalaureat-es-lettres_. Most
Especially did I love Monsieur Durosier's class of French
Literature--for which Merovee always rang the bell himself.
My mother and sister were still at Ste.-Adresse, Havre, with my
father; so I spent my first Sunday that term at the Archibald
Rohans', in the Rue du Bac.
I had often seen them at Brossard's, when they came to see Barty,
but had never been at their house before.
They were very charming people.
Lord Archibald was dressing when we got there that Sunday morning,
and we sat with him while he shaved--in an immense dressing-room
where there were half a dozen towel-horses with about thirty pairs
of newly ironed trousers on them instead of towels, and quite thirty
pairs of shiny boots on trees were ranged along the wall. James, an
impeccable English valet, waited on "his lordship," and never spoke
unless spoken to.
"Hullo, Barty! Who's your friend?"
"Bob Maurice, Uncle Archie."
And Uncle Archie shook hands with me most cordially.
"And how's the north pole this morning?"
"Nicely, thanks, Uncle Archie."
Lord Archibald was a very tall and handsome man, about fifty--very
droll and full of anecdote; he had stories to tell about everything
in the room.
For instance, how Major Welsh of the 10th Hussars had given him that
pair of Wellingtons, which fitted him better than any boots Hoby
ever made him to measure; they were too tight for poor Welsh, who
was a head shorter than himself.
How Kerlewis made him that frock-coat fifteen years ago, and it
wasn't threadbare yet, and fitted him as well as ever--for he hadn't
changed his weight for thirty years, etc.
How that pair of braces had been made by "my lady" out of a pair of
garters she wore on the day they were married.
And then he told us how to keep trousers from bagging at the knees,
and how cloth coats should be ironed, and how often--and how to fold
an umbrella.
It suddenly occurs to me that perhaps these little anecdotes may not
be so amusing to the general reader as they were to me when he told
them, so I won't tell any more. Indeed, I have often noticed that
things look sometimes rather dull in print that were so surprisingly
witty when said in spontaneous talk a great many years ago!
Then we went to breakfast with my lady and Daphne, their charming
little daughter--Barty's sister, as he called her--"m'amour"--and
who spoke both French and English equally well.
But we didn't breakfast at once, ravenous as we boys were, for Lady
Archibald took a sudden dislike to Lord A.'s cravat, which, it
seems, he had never worn before. It was in brown satin, and Lady A.
declared that Loulou (so she called him) never looked "_en beaute_"
with a brown cravat; and there was quite a little quarrel between
husband and wife on the subject--so that he had to go back to his
dressing-room and put on a blue one.
At breakfast he talked about French soldiers of the line, and their
marching kit (as it would be called now), quite earnestly, and, as
it seemed to me, very sensibly--though he went through little
mimicries that made his wife scream with laughter, and me too; and
in the middle of breakfast Barty sang "Le Chant du Depart" as well
as he could for laughing:
"La victoire en chantant nous ouvre la carriere!
La liberte-e 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 Depart," 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 ca!"
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 a l'Hippodrome cette apres-midi voir la belle
ecuyere Madame Richard? Barty adore les jolies femmes, comme son
oncle! n'est-ce pas, mechant 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?"
"O 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 cafe on the Quai
d'Orsay, and then to the Hippodrome, and saw the beautiful ecuyere
in graceful feats of la haute ecole, 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 Cafe
des Aveugles, an underground coffee-house near the Cafe 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 Elysees.
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 Pere 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 Pere 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 tombe du haut mal"--as they expressed it.
His son Merovee and his daughter Madame Germain were distracted. The
whole of that day was spent by the boys in a strange, unnatural
state of _desoeuvrement_ 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. Merovee stood by with
swollen eyes and deathly pale--incarnate grief.
On Wednesday afternoon M. Brossard was buried in the Cimetiere de
Passy, a tremendous crowd following the hearse; the boys and masters
just behind Merovee and M. Germain, the chief male mourners. The
women walked in another separate procession behind.
Beranger 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 Chateaubriand--either _Atala_, or _Rene_ or
_Les Natchez_, I forget which. I have never seen either since.
The study was hushed; M. Dumollard was _de service_ as _maitre
d'etudes_, although there was no attempt to do anything but sadly
read improving books.
If I remember aright, Rene, 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, Rene loved Atala, Atala loved Rene, and they were married; and
Outogamiz went through some ceremony besides, which made him blood
brother and bosom friend to Rene--a bond which involved certain
obligatory rites and duties and self-sacrifices.
Atala died and was buried. Rene 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:
"Voila bien les Anglais!--rien n'est sacre pour eux, pas meme 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.