r, who now lived on the
ground-floor of 108 Champs Elysees.

I slept there that Sunday night, and walked back to school next
morning. To my surprise, as I got to a large field through which a
diagonal footpath led to Pere Jaurion's loge, I saw five or six boys
sitting on the terrace parapet with their legs dangling outside.
They should have been in class, by rights. They watched me cross the
field, but made no sign.

"What on earth _can_ be the matter?" thought I.

The cordon was pulled, and I came on a group of boys all stiff and
silent.

"Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc, tous?" I asked.

"Le Pere Brossard est mort!" said De Villars.

Poor M. Brossard had died of apoplexy on the previous afternoon. He
had run to catch the Passy omnibus directly after lunch, and had
fallen down in a fit and died immediately.

"Il est tombe du haut mal"--as they expressed it.

His son Merovee and his daughter Madame Germain were distracted. The
whole of that day was spent by the boys in a strange, unnatural
state of _desoeuvrement_ and suppressed excitement for which no
outlet was possible. The meals, especially, were all but unbearable.
One was ashamed of having an appetite, and yet one had--almost
keener than usual, if I may judge by myself--and for some
undiscovered reason the food was better than on other Mondays!

Next morning we all went up in sorrowful procession to kiss our poor
dear head-master's cold forehead as he lay dead in his bed, with
sprigs of boxwood on his pillow, and above his head a jar of holy
water with which we sprinkled him. He looked very serene and
majestic, but it was a harrowing ceremony. Merovee stood by with
swollen eyes and deathly pale--incarnate grief.

On Wednesday afternoon M. Brossard was buried in the Cimetiere de
Passy, a tremendous crowd following the hearse; the boys and masters
just behind Merovee and M. Germain, the chief male mourners. The
women walked in another separate procession behind.

Beranger and Alphonse Karr were present among the notabilities, and
speeches were made over his open grave, for he was a very
distinguished man.

And, tragical to relate, that evening in the study Barty and I fell
out, and it led to a stand-up fight next day.

There was no preparation that evening; he and I sat side by side
reading out of a book by Chateaubriand--either _Atala_, or _Rene_ or
_Les Natchez_, I forget which. I have never seen either since.

The study was hushed; M. Dumollard wa