Now this little song, which begins so innocently, like a sweet old
idyl of mediaeval France--"_un echo du temps passe_"--seems to have
been a somewhat Rabelaisian ditty; by no means proper singing for a
Sunday morning in a boys' school. But boys will be boys, even in
France; and the famous "esprit Gaulois" was somewhat precocious in
the forties, I suppose. Perhaps it is now, if it still exists (which
I doubt--the dirt remains, but all the fun seems to have
evaporated).
Suddenly M. Dumollard bursts into the room in his violent sneaky
way, pale with rage, and says:
"Je vais gifler tous ceux qui ont chante" (I'll box the ears of
every boy who sang).
So he puts all in a row and begins:
"Rubinel, sur votre parole d'honneur, avez-vous chante?"
"Non, m'sieur!"
"Caillard, avez-vous chante?"
"Non, m'sieur!"
"Lipmann, avez-vous chante?"
"Non, m'sieur!"
"Maurice, avez-vous chante?"
"Non, m'sieur" (which, for a wonder, was true, for I happened not to
know either the words or the tune).
"Josselin, avez-vous chante?"
"_Oui, m'sieur!_"
And down went Barty his full length on the floor, from a tremendous
open-handed box on the ear. Dumollard was a very Herculean
person--though by no means gigantic.
Barty got up and made Dumollard a polite little bow, and walked out
of the room.
"Vous etes tous consignes!" says M. Dumollard--and the omnibus went
away empty, and we spent all that Sunday morning as best we might.
In the afternoon we went out walking in the Bois. Dumollard had
recovered his serenity and came with us; for he was _de service_
that day.
Says Lipmann to him:
"Josselin drapes himself in his English dignity--he sulks like
Achilles and walks by himself."
"Josselin is at least a _man_," says Dumollard. "He tells the truth,
and doesn't know fear--and I'm sorry he's English!"
And later, at the Mare d'Auteuil, he put out his hand to Barty and
said:
"Let's make it up, Josselin--au moins vous avez du coeur, vous.
Promettez-moi que vous ne chanterez plus cette sale histoire de
Capucin!"
Josselin took the usher's hand, and smiled his open, toothy smile,
and said:
"Pas le dimanche matin toujours--quand c'est vous qui serez de
service, M. Dumollard!" (Anyhow not Sunday morning when _you_'re on
duty, Mr. D.)
And Mr. D. left off running down the English in public after
that--except to say that they _couldn't_ be simple and natural if
they tried; and that they affected a ridiculous accent when they
spoke French--not Josselin and Maurice, but all the others he had
ever met. As if plain French, which had been good enough for William
the Conqueror, wasn't good enough for the subjects of her Britannic
Majesty to-day!
The only event of any importance in Barty's life that year was his
first communion, which he took with several others of about his own
age. An event that did not seem to make much impression on
him--nothing seemed to make much impression on Barty Josselin when
he was very young. He was just a lively, irresponsible,
irrepressible human animal--always in perfect health and exuberant
spirits, with an immense appetite for food and fun and frolic; like
a squirrel, a collie pup, or a kitten.
Pere Bonamy, the priest who confirmed him, was fonder of the boy
than of any one, boy or girl, that he had ever prepared for
communion, and could hardly speak of him with decent gravity, on
account of his extraordinary confessions--all of which were
concocted in the depths of Barty's imagination for the sole purpose
of making the kind old cure laugh; and the kind old cure was just as
fond of laughing as was Barty of playing the fool, in and out of
season. I wonder if he always thought himself bound to respect the
secrets of the confessional in Barty's case!
And Barty would sing to him--even in the confessional:
"Stabat mater dolorosa
Juxta crucem lachrymosa
Dum pendebat fllius" ...
in a voice so sweet and innocent and pathetic that it would almost
bring the tears to the good old cure's eyelash.
"Ah! ma chere Mamzelle Marceline!" he would say--"au moins s'ils
etaient tous comme ce petit Josselin! ca irait comme sur des
roulettes! Il est innocent comme un jeune veau, ce mioche anglais!
Il a le bon Dieu dans le coeur!"
"Et une boussole dans l'estomac!" said Mlle. Marceline.
I don't think he was quite so _innocent_ as all that, perhaps--but
no young beast of the field was ever more _harmless_.
That year the examinations were good all round; even _I_ did not
disgrace myself, and Barty was brilliant. But there were no
delightful holidays for me to record. Barty went to Yorkshire, and I
remained in Paris with my mother.
There is only one thing more worth mentioning that year.
My father had inherited from _his_ father a system of shorthand,
which he called _Blaze_--I don't know why! _His_ father had learnt
it of a Dutch Jew.
It is, I think, the best kind of cipher ever invented (I have taken
interest in these things and studied them). It is very difficult to
learn, but I learnt it as a child--and it was of immense use to me
at lectures we used to attend at the Sorbonne and College de France.
Barty was very anxious to know it, and after some trouble I obtained
my father's permission to impart this calligraphic crypt to Barty,
on condition he should swear on his honor never to reveal it: and
this he did.
With his extraordinary quickness and the perseverance he always had
when he wished a thing very much, he made himself a complete master
of this occult science before he left school, two or three years
later: it took _me_ seven years--beginning when I was four! It does
equally well for French or English, and it played an important part
in Barty's career. My sister knew it, but imperfectly; my mother not
at all--for all she tried so hard and was so persevering; it must be
learnt young. As far as I am aware, no one else knows it in England
or France--or even the world--although it is such a useful
invention; quite a marvel of simple ingenuity when one has mastered
the symbols, which certainly take a long time and a deal of hard
work.
Barty and I got to talk it on our fingers as rapidly as ordinary
speech and with the slightest possible gestures: this was _his_
improvement.
* * * * *
Barty came back from his holidays full of Whitby, and its sailors
and whalers, and fishermen and cobles and cliffs--all of which had
evidently had an immense attraction for him. He was always fond of
that class; possibly also some vague atavistic sympathy for the
toilers of the sea lay dormant in his blood like an inherited
memory.
And he brought back many tokens of these good people's regard--two
formidable clasp-knives (for each of which he had to pay the giver
one farthing in current coin of the realm); spirit-flasks, leather
bottles, jet ornaments; woollen jerseys and comforters knitted for
him by their wives and daughters; fossil ammonites and coprolites; a
couple of young sea-gulls to add to his menagerie; and many old
English marine ditties, which he had to sing to M. Bonzig with his
now cracked voice, and then translate into French. Indeed, Bonzig
and Barty became inseparable companions during the Thursday
promenade, on the strength of their common interest in ships and the
sea; and Barty never wearied of describing the place he loved, nor
Bonzig of listening and commenting.
"Ah! mon cher! ce que je donnerais, moi, pour voir le retour d'un
baleinier a Ouittebe! Quelle 'marine' ca ferait! hein? avec la
grande falaise, et la bonne petite eglise en haut, pres de la
Vieille Abbaye--et les toits rouges qui fument, et les trois jetees
en pierre, et le vieux pont-levis--et toute cette grouille de
mariniers avec leurs femmes et leurs enfants--et ces braves filles
qui attendent le retour du bien-aime! nom d'un nom! dire que vous
avez vu tout ca, vous--qui n'avez pas encore seize ans ... quelle
chance!... dites--qu'est-ce que ca veut bien dire, ce
'Ouile me sekile ro!'