The Martian: A Novel. Du Maurier George

at Brossard's school fifty years ago, and the masters who taught there (peace to their ashes!), are far more to my taste than the actual human beings among whom my dull existence of business and politics and society is mostly spent in these days. The school must have broken up somewhere about the early fifties. The stuccoed Doric dwelling was long since replaced by an important stone mansion, in a very different style of architecture – the abode of a wealthy banker – and this again, later, by a palace many stories high. The two school‐houses in red brick are no more; the play‐ground grew into a luxuriant garden, where a dozen very tall trees overtopped the rest; from their evident age and their position in regard to each other they must have been old friends of mine grown out of all knowledge.

      I saw them only twenty years ago, from the top of a Passy omnibus, and recognized every one of them. I went from the Arc de Triomphe to Passy and back quite a dozen times, on purpose – once for each tree! It touched me to think how often the author of Sardonyx has stood leaning his back against one of those giants —au piquet!

      They are now no more; and Passy omnibuses no longer ply up and down the Allée du Bois de Boulogne, which is now an avenue of palaces.

      An umbrageous lane that led from the Rond‐point to Chaillot (that very forgettable, and by me quite forgotten, quarter) separated the Institution F. Brossard from the Pensionnat Mélanie Jalabert – a beautiful pseudo‐Gothic castle which was tenanted for a while by Prince de Carabas‐Chenonceaux after Mlle. Jalabert had broken up her ladies' school in 1849.

      My mother boarded and lodged there, with my little sister, in the summer of 1847. There were one or two other English lady boarders, half‐pupils – much younger than my mother – indeed, they may be alive now. If they are, and this should happen to meet their eye, may I ask them to remember kindly the Irish wife of the Scotch merchant of French wines who supplied them with the innocent vintage of Mâcon (ah! who knows that innocence better than I?), and his pretty little daughter who played the piano so nicely; may I beg them also not to think it necessary to communicate with me on the subject, or, if they do, not to expect an answer?

      One night Mlle. Jalabert gave a small dance, and Mérovée Brossard was invited, and also half a dozen of his favorite pupils, and a fair‐haired English boy of thirteen danced with the beautiful Miss – .

      They came to grief and fell together in a heap on the slippery floor; but no bones were broken, and there was much good‐natured laughter at their expense. If Miss – (that was) is still among the quick, and remembers, it may interest her to know that that fair‐haired English boy's name was no less than Bartholomew Josselin; and that another English boy, somewhat thick‐set and stumpy, and not much to look at, held her in deep love, admiration, and awe – and has not forgotten!

      If I happen to mention this, it is not with a view of tempting her into any correspondence about this little episode of bygone years, should this ever meet her eye.

      The Sunday morning that followed Barty's début at Brossard's the boys went to church in the Rue de l'Église, Passy – and he with them, for he had been brought up a Roman Catholic. And I went round to Mlle. Jalabert's to see my mother and sister.

      I told them all about the new boy, and they were much interested. Suddenly my mother exclaimed:

      "Bartholomew Josselin? why, dear me! that must be Lord Runswick's son – Lord Runswick, who was the eldest son of the present Marquis of Whitby. He was in the 17th lancers with your uncle Charles, who was very fond of him. He left the army twenty years ago, and married Lady Selina Jobhouse – and his wife went mad. Then he fell in love with the famous Antoinette Josselin at the 'Bouffes,' and wanted so much to marry her that he tried to get a divorce; it was tried in the House of Lords, I believe; but he didn't succeed – so they – a – well – they contracted a – a morganatic marriage, you know; and your friend was born. And poor Lord Runswick was killed in a duel about a dog, when his son was two years old; and his mother left the stage, and – "

      Just here the beautiful Miss – came in with her sister, and there was no more of Josselin's family history; and I forgot all about it for the day. For I passionately loved the beautiful Miss – ; I was just thirteen!

      But next morning I said to him at breakfast, in English,

      "Wasn't your father killed in a duel?"

      "Yes," said Barty, looking grave.

      "Wasn't he called Lord Runswick?"

      "Yes," said Barty, looking graver still.

      "Then why are you called Josselin?"

      "Ask no questions and you'll get no lies," said Barty, looking very grave indeed – and I dropped the subject.

      And here I may as well rapidly go through the well‐known story of his birth and early childhood.

      His father, Lord Runswick, fell desperately in love with the beautiful Antoinette Josselin after his own wife had gone hopelessly mad. He failed to obtain a divorce, naturally; Antoinette was as much in love with him, and they lived together as man and wife, and Barty was born. They were said to be the handsomest couple in Paris, and immensely popular among all who knew them, though of course society did not open its doors to la belle Madame de Ronsvic, as she was called.

      She was the daughter of poor fisher‐folk in Le Pollet, Dieppe. I, with Barty for a guide, have seen the lowly dwelling where her infancy and childhood were spent, and which Barty remembered well, and also such of her kin as was still alive in 1870, and felt it was good to come of such a race, humble as they were. They were physically splendid people, almost as splendid as Barty himself; and, as I was told by many who knew them well, as good to know and live with as they were good to look at – all that was easy to see – and their manners were delightful.

      When Antoinette was twelve, she went to stay in Paris with her uncle and aunt, who were concierges to Prince Scorchakoff in the Rue du Faubourg St.‐Honoré; next door, or next door but one, to the Élysée Bourbon, as it was called then. And there the Princess took a fancy to her, and had her carefully educated, especially in music; for the child had a charming voice and a great musical talent, besides being beautiful to the eye – gifts which her son inherited.

      Then she became for three or four years a pupil at the Conservatoire, and finally went on the stage, and was soon one of the most brilliant stars of the Parisian theatre at its most brilliant period.

      Then she met the handsome English lord, who was forty, and they fell in love with each other, and all happened as I have told.

      In the spring of 1837 Lord Runswick was killed in a duel by Lieutenant Rondelis, of the deuxième Spahis. Antoinette's dog had jumped up to play with the lieutenant, who struck it with his cane (for he was "en pékin," it appears – in mufti); and Lord Runswick laid his own cane across the Frenchman's back; and next morning they fought with swords, by the Mare aux Biches, in the Bois de Boulogne – a little secluded, sedgy pool, hardly more than six inches deep and six yards across. Barty and I have often skated there as boys.

      The Englishman was run through at the first lunge, and fell dead on the spot.

      A few years ago Barty met the son of the man who killed Lord Runswick – it was at the French Embassy in Albert Gate. They were introduced to each other, and M. Rondelis told Barty how his own father's life had been poisoned by sorrow and remorse at having had "la main si malheureuse" on that fatal morning by the Mare aux Biches.

      Poor Antoinette, mad with grief, left the stage, and went with her little boy to live in the Pollet, near her parents. Three years later she died there, of typhus, and Barty was left an orphan and penniless; for Lord Runswick had been poor, and lived beyond his means, and died in debt.

      Lord Archibald Rohan, a favorite younger brother of Runswick's (not the heir), came to Dieppe from Dover (where he was quartered with his regiment, the 7th Royal Fusileers) to see the boy, and took a fancy to him, and brought him back to Dover to show his wife, who was also French – a daughter of the old Gascon family of Lonlay‐Savignac, who had gone into trade (chocolate) and become immensely rich. They (the Rohans) had been married eight years, and had as yet no children of their own. Lady Archibald was delighted with the child, who was quite beautiful. She fell in love with the little creature