way from the
College de France every Saturday afternoon in June and July to tell
us boys of the quatrieme all about Villon and Ronsard, and Marot and
Charles d'Orleans (_exceptis excipiendis_, of course), and other
pleasant people who didn't deal in Greek or Latin or mathematics,
and knew better than to trouble themselves overmuch about formal
French grammar and niggling French prosody.

Besides, everything was pleasant on a Saturday afternoon on account
of the nearness of the day of days--

"And that's the day that comes between
The Saturday and Monday"....

in France.

I had just finished translating my twenty lines of Virgil--

"Infandum, regina, jubes renovare," etc.

Oh, crimini, but it _was_ hot! and how I disliked the pious AEneas! I
couldn't have hated him worse if I'd been poor Dido's favorite
younger brother (not mentioned by Publius Vergilius Maro, if I
remember).

Palaiseau, who sat next to me, had a cold in his head, and kept
sniffing in a manner that got on my nerves.

"Mouche-toi donc, animal!" I whispered; "tu me degoutes, a la fin!"

Palaiseau always sniffed, whether he had a cold or not.

"Taisez-vous, Maurice--ou je vous donne cent vers a copier!" said M.
Bonzig, and his eyes quiveringly glittered through his glasses as he
fixed me.

Palaiseau, in his brief triumph, sniffed louder.

"Palaiseau," said Monsieur Bonzig, "si vous vous serviez de votre
mouchoir--hein? Je crois que cela ne generait personne!" (If you
were to use your pocket-handkerchief--eh? I don't think it would
inconvenience anybody!)

At this there was a general titter all round, which was immediately
suppressed, as in a court of law; and Palaiseau reluctantly and
noisily did as he was told.

In front of me that dishonest little sneak Rapaud, with a tall
parapet of books before him to serve as a screen, one hand shading
his eyes, and an inkless pen in the other, was scratching his
copy-book with noisy earnestness, as if time were too short for all
he had to write about the pious AEneas's recitative, while he
surreptitiously read the _Comte de Monte Cristo_, which lay open in
his lap--just at the part where the body, sewn up in a sack, was
going to be hurled into the Mediterranean. I knew the page well.
There was a splash of red ink on it.

It made my blood boil with virtuous indignation to watch him, and I
coughed and hemmed again and again to attract his attention, for his
back was nearly towards m