The Martian: A Novel. Du Maurier George
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 – "un écho du temps passé" – 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 chanté" (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 chanté?"
"Non, m'sieur!"
"Caillard, avez‐vous chanté?"
"Non, m'sieur!"
"Lipmann, avez‐vous chanté?"
"Non, m'sieur!"
"Maurice, avez‐vous chanté?"
"Non, m'sieur" (which, for a wonder, was true, for I happened not to know either the words or the tune).
"Josselin, avez‐vous chanté?"
"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 êtes tous consignés!" 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 cœur, 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!
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