The Martian: A Novel. Du Maurier George

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СКАЧАТЬ then produced my crust and cut it in two, butter and all, and gave Barty half, and we sat very happily side by side, and breakfasted together in peace and amity. I never felt happier or hungrier.

      "Cristi, comme ils se sont bien battus," says little Vaissière to little Cormenu. "As‐tu vu? Josselin a saigné tout plein sur la blouse à Maurice." (How well they fought! Josselin bled all over Maurice's blouse!)

      Then says Josselin, in French, turning to me with that delightful jolly smile that always reminded one of the sun breaking through a mist:

      "I would sooner bleed on your blouse than on your tomb." (J'aime mieux saigner sur ta blouse que sur ta tombe.)

      So ended the only quarrel we ever had.

      Part Third

      "Que ne puis‐je aller où s'en vont les roses,

      Et n'attendre pas

      Ces regrets navrants que la fin des choses

      Nous garde ici‐bas!" – Anon.

      Barty worked very hard, and so did I – for me! Horace – Homer – Æschylus – Plato – etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., and all there was to learn in that French school-boy's encyclopædia – "Le Manuel du Baccalauréat"; a very thick book in very small print. And I came to the conclusion that it is good to work hard: it makes one enjoy food and play and sleep so keenly – and Thursday afternoons.

      The school was all the pleasanter for having fewer boys; we got more intimate with each other, and with the masters too. During the winter M. Bonzig told us capital stories —Modeste Mignon, by Balzac —Le Chevalier de Maison‐rouge, by A. Dumas père – etc., etc.

      In the summer the Passy swimming‐bath was more delightful than ever. Both winter and summer we passionately fenced with a pupil (un prévôt) of the famous M. Bonnet, and did gymnastics with M. Louis, the gymnastic master of the Collège Charlemagne – the finest man I ever saw – a gigantic dwarf six feet high, all made up of lumps of sinew and muscles, like…

      Also, we were taught equitation at the riding‐school in the Rue Duphot.

      On Saturday nights Barty would draw a lovely female profile, with a beautiful big black eye, in pen and ink, and carefully shade it; especially the hair, which was always as the raven's wing! And on Sunday morning he and I used to walk together to 108 Champs Élysées and enter the rez‐de‐chaussée (where my mother and sister lived) by the window, before my mother was up. Then Barty took out his lovely female pen‐and‐ink profile to gaze at, and rolled himself a cigarette and lit it, and lay back on the sofa, and made my sister play her lightest music – "La pluie de Perles," by Osborne – and "Indiana," a beautiful valse by Marcailhou – and thus combine three or four perfect blisses in one happy quart d'heure.

      Then my mother would appear, and we would have breakfast – after which Barty and I would depart by the window as we had come, and go and do our bit of Boulevard and Palais Royal. Then to the Rue du Bac for another breakfast with the Rohans; and then, "au petit bonheur"; that is, trusting to Providence for whatever turned up. The programme didn't vary very much: either I dined with him at the Rohans', or he with me at 108. Then, back to Brossard's at ten – tired and happy.

      One Sunday I remember well we stayed in school, for old Josselin the fisherman came to see us there – Barty's grandfather, now a widower; and M. Mérovée asked him to lunch with us, and go to the baths in the afternoon.

      Imagine old Bonzig's delight in this "vieux loup de mer," as he called him! That was a happy day for the old fisherman also; I shall never forget his surprise at M. Dumollard's telescope – and how clever he was on the subject.

      He came to the baths, and admired and criticised the good swimming of the boys – especially Barty's, which was really remarkable. I don't believe he could swim a stroke himself.

      Then we went and dined together at Lord Archibald's, in the Rue du Bac – "Mon Colonel," as the old fisherman always called him. He was a very humorous and intelligent person, this fisher, though nearer eighty than seventy; very big, and of a singularly picturesque appearance – for he had not endimanché himself in the least; and very clean. A splendid old man; oddly enough, somewhat Semitic of aspect – as though he had just come from a miraculous draught of fishes in the Sea of Galilee, out of a cartoon by Raphael!

      I recollect admiring how easily and pleasantly everything went during dinner, and all through the perfection of this ancient sea‐toiler's breeding in all essentials.

      Of course the poor all over the world are less nice in their habits than the rich, and less correct in their grammar and accent, and narrower in their views of life; but in every other respect there seemed little to choose between Josselins and Rohans and Lonlay‐Savignacs; and indeed, according to Lord Archibald, the best manners were to be found at these two opposite poles – or even wider still. He would have it that Royalty and chimney‐sweeps were the best‐bred people all over the world – because there was no possible mistake about their social status.

      I felt a little indignant – after all, Lady Archibald was built out of chocolate, for all her Lonlay and her Savignac! just as I was built out of Beaune and Chambertin.

      I'm afraid I shall be looked upon as a snob and a traitor to my class if I say that I have at last come to be of the same opinion myself. That is, if absolute simplicity, and the absence of all possible temptation to try and seem an inch higher up than we really are – But there! this is a very delicate question, about which I don't care a straw; and there are such exceptions, and so many, to confirm any such rule!

      Anyhow, I saw how Barty couldn't help having the manners we all so loved him for. After dinner Lady Archibald showed old Josselin some of Barty's lovely female profiles – a sight that affected him strangely. He would have it that they were all exact portraits of his beloved Antoinette, Barty's mother.

      They were certainly singularly like each other, these little chefs‐d'œuvre of Barty's, and singularly handsome – an ideal type of his own; and the old grandfather was allowed his choice, and touchingly grateful at being presented with such treasures.

      The scene made a great impression on me.

      So spent itself that year – a happy year that had no history – except for one little incident that I will tell because it concerns Barty, and illustrates him.

      One beautiful Sunday morning the yellow omnibus was waiting for some of us as we dawdled about in the school‐room, titivating; the masters nowhere, as usual on a Sunday morning; and some of the boys began to sing in chorus a not very edifying chanson, which they did not "Bowdlerize," about a holy Capuchin friar; it began (if I remember rightly):

      "C'était un Capucin, oui bien, un père Capucin,

      Qui confessait trois filles —

      Itou, itou, itou, là là là!

      Qui confessait trois filles

      Au fond de son jardin —

      Oui bien —

      Au fond de son jardin!

      Il dit à la plus jeune —

      Itou, itou, itou, là là là!

      Il dit à la plus jeune…

      'Vous reviendrez demain!'"

      Etc, etc., etc.

      I have quite forgotten the rest.

      Now this little song, which begins so innocently, like a sweet old idyl of mediæval France – СКАЧАТЬ