tion, about which I
don't care a straw; and there are such exceptions, and so many, to
confirm any such rule!

Anyhow, I saw how Barty _couldn't help_ having the manners we all so
loved him for. After dinner Lady Archibald showed old Josselin some
of Barty's lovely female profiles--a sight that affected him
strangely. He would have it that they were all exact portraits of
his beloved Antoinette, Barty's mother.

They were certainly singularly like each other, these little
chefs-d'oeuvre of Barty's, and singularly handsome--an ideal type of
his own; and the old grandfather was allowed his choice, and
touchingly grateful at being presented with such treasures.

The scene made a great impression on me.

* * * * *

So spent itself that year--a happy year that had no history--except
for one little incident that I will tell because it concerns Barty,
and illustrates him.

One beautiful Sunday morning the yellow omnibus was waiting for some
of us as we dawdled about in the school-room, titivating; the
masters nowhere, as usual on a Sunday morning; and some of the boys
began to sing in chorus a not very edifying _chanson_, which they
did not "Bowdlerize," about a holy Capuchin friar; it began (if I
remember rightly):

"C'etait un Capucin, oui bien, un pere Capucin,
Qui confessait trois filles--
Itou, itou, itou, la la la!
Qui confessait trois filles
Au fond de son jardin--
Oui bien--
Au fond de son jardin!
Il dit a la plus jeune--
Itou, itou, itou, la la la!
Il dit a la plus jeune
... 'Vous reviendrez demain!'"
Etc, etc., etc.

I have quite forgotten the rest.

Now this little song, which begins so innocently, like a sweet old
idyl of mediaeval France--"_un echo du temps passe_"--seems to have
been a somewhat Rabelaisian ditty; by no means proper singing for a
Sunday morning in a boys' school. But boys will be boys, even in
France; and the famous "esprit Gaulois" was somewhat precocious in
the forties, I suppose. Perhaps it is now, if it still exists (which
I doubt--the dirt remains, but all the fun seems to have
evaporated).

Suddenly M. Dumollard bursts into the room in his violent sneaky
way, pale with rage, and says:

"Je vais gifler tous ceux qui ont chante" (I'll box the ears of
every boy who sang).

So he puts all in a row and begins:

"Rubinel, sur votre parol