The Martian: A Novel. Du Maurier George

the immortal story in less than a week – to the disgust of Rapaud, who refused to believe that we could possibly know such a beastly tongue as English well enough to read an English book for mere pleasure – on our desks in play‐time, or on our laps in school, en cachette! "Quelle sacrée pose!"

      He soon mislaid his own copy, did Rapaud; just as he mislaid my Monte Cristo and Jolivet's illustrated Wandering Jew– and it was always:

      "Dis donc, Maurice! – prête‐moi ton Ivanhoé!" (with an accent on the e), whenever he had to construe his twenty lines of Valtére Scott – and what a hash he made of them!

      Sometimes M. Brossard himself would come, smoking his big meerschaum, and help the English class during preparation, and put us up to a thing or two worth knowing.

      "Rapaud, comment dit‐on 'pouvoir' en anglais?"

      "Sais pas, m'sieur!"

      "Comment, petit crétin, tu ne sais pas!"

      And Rapaud would receive a pincée tordue– a "twisted pinch" – on the back of his arm to quicken his memory.

      "Oh, là, là!" he would howl – "je n' sais pas!"

      "Et toi, Maurice?"

      "Ça se dit 'to be able,' m'sieur!" I would say.

      "Mais non, mon ami – tu oublies ta langue natale – ça se dit, 'to can'! Maintenant, comment dirais‐tu en anglais, 'je voudrais pouvoir'?"

      "Je dirais, 'I would like to be able.'"

      "Comment, encore! petit cancre! allons – tu es Anglais – tu sais bien que tu dirais, 'I vould vill to can'!"

      Then M. Brossard turns to Barty: "A ton tour, Josselin!"

      "Moi, m'sieur?" says Barty.

      "Oui, toi! – comment dirais‐tu, 'je pourrais vouloir'?"

      "Je dirais 'I vould can to vill,'" says Barty, quite unabashed.

      "À la bonne heure! au moins tu sais ta langue, toi!" says Père Brossard, and pats him on the cheek; while Barty winks at me, the wink of successful time‐serving hypocrisy, and Bonneville writhes with suppressed delight.

      What lives most in my remembrance of that summer is the lovely weather we had, and the joy of the Passy swimming‐bath every Thursday and Sunday from two till five or six; it comes back to me even now in heavenly dreams by night. I swim with giant side‐strokes all round the Île des Cygnes between Passy and Grenelle, where the École de Natation was moored for the summer months.

      Round and round the isle I go, up stream and down, and dive and float and wallow with bliss there is no telling – till the waters all dry up and disappear, and I am left wading in weeds and mud and drift and drought and desolation, and wake up shivering – and such is life.

      As for Barty, he was all but amphibious, and reminded me of the seal at the Jardin des Plantes. He really seemed to spend most of the afternoon under water, coming up to breathe now and then at unexpected moments, with a stone in his mouth that he had picked up from the slimy bottom ten or twelve feet below – or a weed – or a dead mussel.

      Part Second

      "Laissons les regrets et les pleurs

      À la vieillesse;

      Jeunes, il faut cueillir les fleurs

      De la jeunesse!" – Baïf.

      Sometimes we spent the Sunday morning in Paris, Barty and I – in picture‐galleries and museums and wax‐figure shows, churches and cemeteries, and the Hôtel Cluny and the Baths of Julian the Apostate – or the Jardin des Plantes, or the Morgue, or the knackers' yards at Montfaucon – or lovely slums. Then a swim at the Bains Deligny. Then lunch at some restaurant on the Quai Voltaire, or in the Quartier Latin. Then to some café on the Boulevards, drinking our demi‐tasse and our chasse‐café, and smoking our cigarettes like men, and picking our teeth like gentlemen of France.

      Once after lunch at Vachette's with Berquin (who was seventeen) and Bonneville (the marquis who had got an English mother), we were sitting outside the Café des Variétés, in the midst of a crowd of consommateurs, and tasting to the full the joy of being alive, when a poor woman came up with a guitar, and tried to sing "Le petit mousse noir," a song Barty knew quite well – but she couldn't sing a bit, and nobody listened.

      "Allons, Josselin, chante‐nous ça!" said Berquin.

      And Bonneville jumped up, and took the woman's guitar from her, and forced it into Josselin's hands, while the crowd became much interested and began to applaud.

      Thus encouraged, Barty, who never in all his life knew what it is to be shy, stood up and piped away like a bird; and when he had finished the story of the little black cabin‐boy who sings in the maintop halliards, the applause was so tremendous that he had to stand up on a chair and sing another, and yet another.

      "Écoute‐moi bien, ma Fleurette!" and "Amis, la matinée est belle!" (from La Muette de Portici), while the pavement outside the Variétés was rendered quite impassable by the crowd that had gathered round to look and listen – and who all joined in the chorus:

      "Conduis ta barque avec prudence,

      Pêcheur! parle bas!

      Jette tes filets en silence

      Pêcheur! parle bas!

      Et le roi des mers ne nous échappera pas!" (bis).

      and the applause was deafening.

      Meanwhile Bonneville and Berquin went round with the hat and gathered quite a considerable sum, in which there seemed to be almost as much silver as copper – and actually two five‐franc pieces and an English half‐sovereign! The poor woman wept with gratitude at coming into such a fortune, and insisted on kissing Barty's hand. Indeed it was a quite wonderful ovation, considering how unmistakably British was Barty's appearance, and how unpopular we were in France just then!

      He had his new shiny black silk chimney‐pot hat on, and his Eton jacket, with the wide shirt collar. Berquin, in a tightly fitting double‐breasted brown cloth swallow‐tailed coat with brass buttons, yellow nankin bell‐mouthed trousers strapped over varnished boots, butter‐colored gloves, a blue satin stock, and a very tall hairy hat with a wide curly brim, looked such an out‐and‐out young gentleman of France that we were all proud of being seen in his company – especially young de Bonneville, who was still in mourning for his father and wore a crape band round his arm, and a common cloth cap with a leather peak, and thick blucher boots; though he was quite sixteen, and already had a little black mustache like an eyebrow, and inhaled the smoke of his cigarette without coughing and quite naturally, and ordered the waiters about just as if he already wore the uniform of the École St.‐Cyr, for which he destined himself (and was not disappointed. He should be a marshal of France by now – perhaps he is).

      Then we went to the Café Mulhouse on the Boulevard des Italiens (on the "Boul. des It.," as we called it, to be in the fashion) – that we might gaze at Señor Joaquin Eliezegui, the Spanish giant, who was eight feet high and a trifle over (or under – I forget which): he told us himself. Barty had a passion for gazing at very tall men; like Frederic the Great (or was it his Majesty's royal father?).

      Then we went to the Boulevard Bonne‐Nouvelle, where, in a painted wooden shed, a most beautiful Circassian slave, miraculously rescued from some abominable seraglio in Constantinople, sold pen'orths of "galette du gymnase." On her raven hair she wore a silk turban all over sequins, silver and gold, with a yashmak that fell down behind, leaving her adorable face exposed: she had an amber vest of silk, embroidered with pearls as big as walnuts, and Turkish pantalettes – what her slippers were we couldn't see, but they must have been lovely, like all the rest of her. Barty had a passion for gazing at very beautiful female faces – like his father before him.

      There was a regular queue of postulants to see this heavenly Eastern houri and buy her confection, which is very like Scotch butter‐cake, but not so digestible; and even more filling at the price.