The Martian: A Novel. Du Maurier George

two or three minutes, so as to give himself time for thought and chuckles, while he smoked his pipe in silent stodgy jubilation.

      Then, two or three songs – they would be stopped, if M. Laferté didn't like them, after the first verse, and another one started instead; and if it pleased him, it was encored two or three times.

      Then, pen and ink and paper were brought, and a small table and a kitchen chair, and Barty had to draw caricatures, of which M. Laferté chose the subject.

      "Maintenant, fais‐moi le profil de mon vieil ami M. Bonzig, que j' n' connais pas, que j' n'ai jamais vu, mais q' j'aime beaucoup." (Now do me the side face of my old friend M. Bonzig, whom I don't know, but am very fond of.)

      And so on for twenty minutes.

      Then Barty had to be blindfolded and twisted round and round, and point out the north – when he felt up to it.

      Then a pause for reflection.

      Then: "Dis‐moi qué'q' chose en anglais."

      "How do you do very well hey diddle‐diddle Chichester church in Chichester church‐yard!" says Barty.

      "Qué'q' çà veut dire?"

      "Il s'agit d'une église et d'un cimetière!" says Barty – rather sadly, with a wink at me.

      "C'est pas gai! Qué vilaine langue, hein? J' suis joliment content que j' sais pas I'anglais, moi!" (It's not lively! What a beastly language, eh? I'm precious glad I don't know English.)

      Then: "Démontre‐moi un problème de géométrie."

      Barty would then do a simple problem out of Legendre (the French Euclid), and M. Laferté would look on with deep interest and admiration, but evidently no comprehension whatever. Then he would take the pen himself, and draw a shapeless figure, with A's and B's and C's and D's stuck all over it in impossible places, and quite at hazard, and say:

      "Démontre‐moi que A + B est plus grand que C + D." It was mere idiotic nonsense, and he didn't know better!

      But Barty would manage to demonstrate it all the same, and M. Laferté would sigh deeply, and exclaim, "C'est joliment beau, la géométrie!"

      Then: "Danse!"

      And Barty danced "la Paladine," and did Scotch reels and Irish jigs and break‐downs of his own invention, amidst roars of laughter from all the family.

      Finally the gentlemen of the party went down to the river for a swim – and old Laferté would sit on the bank and smoke his brûle‐gueule, and throw carefully selected stones for Barty to dive after – and feel he'd scored off Barty when the proper stone wasn't found, and roar in his triumph. After which he would go and pick the finest peach he could find, and peel it with his pocket‐knife very neatly, and when Barty was dressed, present it to him with a kindly look in both eyes at once.

      "Mange‐moi ça – ça t' fera du bien!"

      Then, suddenly: "Pourquoi q' tu n'aimes pas la chasse? t'as pas peur, j'espère!" (Why don't you like shooting? you're not afraid, I hope!)

      "'Sais pas,'" said Josselin; "don't like killing things, I suppose.'"

      So Barty became quite indispensable to the happiness and comfort of Père Polyphème, as he called him, as well as of his amiable family.

      On the 1st of September there was a grand breakfast in honor of the partridges (not in the kitchen this time), and many guests were invited; and Barty had to sing and talk and play the fool all through breakfast; and got very tipsy, and had to be put to bed for the rest of the day. It was no fault of his, and Madame Lafertó declared that "ces messieurs" ought to be ashamed of themselves, and watched over Barty like a mother. He has often declared he was never quite the same after that debauch – and couldn't feel the north for a month.

      The house was soon full of guests, and Barty and I slept in M. Laferté's bedroom – his wife in a room adjoining.

      Every morning old Polyphemus would wake us up by roaring out:

      "Hé! ma femme!"

      "Voilà, voilà, mon ami!" from the next room.

      "Viens vite panser mon cautère!"

      And in came Madame L. in her dressing‐gown, and dressed a blister he wore on his big arm.

      Then: "Café!"

      And coffee came, and he drank it in bed.

      Then: "Pipe!"

      And his pipe was brought and filled, and he lit it.

      Then: "Josselin!"

      "Oui, M'sieur Laferté."

      "Tire moi une gamme."

      "Dorémifasollasido – Dosilasolfamirédo!" sang Josselin, up and down, in beautiful tune, with his fresh bird‐like soprano.

      "Ah! q' ça fait du bien!" says M. L.; then a pause, and puffs of smoke and grunts and sighs of satisfaction.

      "Josselin?"

      "Oui, M'sieur Laferté!"

      "'La brune Thérèse!'"

      And Josselin would sing about the dark‐haired Thérèsa – three verses.

      "Tu as changé la fin du second couplet – tu as dit 'des comtesses' au lieu de dire 'des duchesses' – recommence!" (You changed the end of the second verse – you said "countesses" instead of "duchesses" – begin again.)

      And Barty would re‐sing it, as desired, and bring in the duchesses.

      "Maintenant, 'Colin, disait Lisette!'"

      And Barty would sing that charming little song, most charmingly:

      "'Colin,' disait Lisette,

      'Je voudrais passer l'eau!

      Mais je suis trop pauvrette

      Pour payer le bateau!

      ''Entrez, entrez, ma belle!

      Entrez, entrez toujours!

      Et vogue la nacelle

      Qui porte mes amours!"

      And old L. would smoke and listen with an air of heavenly beatitude almost pathetic.

      "Elle était bien gentille, Lisette – n'est‐ce pas, petiot? – recommence!" (She was very nice, Lisette; wasn't she, sonny? – being again!)

      "Now both get up and wash and go to breakfast. Come here, Josselin – you see this little silver dagger" (producing it from under his pillow). "It's rather pointy, but not at all dangerous. My mother gave it me when I was just your age – to cut books with; it's for you. Allons, file! [cut along] no thanks! – but look here – are you coming with us à la chasse to‐day?"

      "Non, M. Laferté!"

      "Pourquoi? – t'as pas peur, j'espère!"

      "Sais pas. J' n'aime pas les choses mortes – ça saigne – et ça n' sent pas bon – ça m'fait mal au cœur." (Don't know. I'm not fond of dead things. They bleed – and they don't smell nice – it makes me sick.)

      And two or three times a day would Barty receive some costly token of this queer old giant's affection, till he got quite unhappy about it. He feared he was despoiling the House of Laferté of all its treasures in silver and gold; but he soothed his troubled conscience later on by giving them all away to favorite boys and masters at Brossard's – especially M. Bonzig, who had taken charge of his white mouse (and her family, now quite grown up – children and grandchildren and all) when Mlle. Marceline went for her fortnight's holiday. Indeed, he had made a beautiful cage for them out of wood and wire, with little pasteboard mangers (which they nibbled away).

      Well, the men of the party and young Laferté and I would go off with the dogs and keepers into the forest – and Barty would pick filberts and fruit with Jeanne and Marie, and eat them with bread‐and‐butter and jam and cernaux (unripe walnuts mixed with salt and water and verjuice – quite the nicest thing in the world). Then he would find his way into the heart of the forest, which he loved – and where he had