nd I. But they were eighteen or
nineteen, and "en Philosophie," the highest class in the school--and
very first-rate boys indeed. It's only fair that I should add this.)

By-the-way, also, M. Dumollard took it into his head to persecute me
because once I refused to fetch and carry for him and be his
"moricaud," or black slave (as du Tertre-Jouan called it): a mean
and petty persecution which lasted two years, and somewhat embitters
my memory of those happy days. It was always "Maurice au piquet pour
une heure!"... "Maurice a la retenue!"... "Maurice prive de bain!"...
"Maurice consigne dimanche prochain!" ... for the slightest
possible offence. But I forgive him freely.

First, because he is probably dead, and "de mortibus nil
desperandum!" as Rapaud once said--and for saying which he received
a "twisted pinch" from Merovee Brossard himself.

Secondly, because he made chemistry, cosmography, and physics so
pleasant--and even reconciled me at last to the differential and
integral calculus (but never Barty!).

He could be rather snobbish at times, which was not a common French
fault in the forties--we didn't even know what to call it.

For instance, he was fond of bragging to us boys about the golden
splendors of his Sunday dissipation, and his grand acquaintances,
even in class. He would even interrupt himself in the middle of an
equation at the blackboard to do so.

"You mustn't imagine to yourselves, messieurs, that because I teach
you boys science at the Pension Brossard, and take you out walking
on Thursday afternoons, and all that, that I do not associate _avec
des gens du monde_! Last night, for example, I was dining at the
Cafe de Paris with a very intimate friend of mine--he's a
marquis--and when the bill was brought, what do you think it came
to? you give it up?" (vous donnez votre langue aux chats?). "Well,
it came to fifty-seven francs, fifty centimes! We tossed up who
should pay--et, ma foi, le sort a favorise M. le Marquis!"

To this there was nothing to say; so none of us said anything,
except du Tertre-Jouan, _our_ marquis (No. 2), who said, in his
sulky, insolent, peasantlike manner:

"Et comment q'ca s'appelle, vot' marquis?" (What does it call
itself, your marquis?)

Upon which M. Dumollard turns very red ("pique un soleil"), and
says:

"Monsieur le Marquis Paul--Francois--Victor du Tertre-Jouan de
Haultcastel de St.-Paterne, vous etes un paltoquet et un rustre!..."

And goes back to his