When Father Louis got up from the music‑stool, the Abbé would say to Barty, in his delightful, pure French:
"And now, mon ami—just for me, you know—a little song of autrefois."
"All right, M. l'Abbé—I will sing you the 'Adelaïde,' of Beethoven ... if Father Louis will play for me."
"Oh, non, mon ami, do not throw away such a beautiful organ as yours on such really beautiful music, which doesn't want it; it would be sinful waste; it's not so much the tune that I want to hear as the fresh young voice; sing me something French, something light, something amiable and droll; that I may forget the song, and only remember the singer."
"All right, M. l'Abbé," and Barty sings a delightful little song by Gustave Nadaud, called "Petit bonhomme vit encore."
And the good Abbé is in the seventh heaven, and quite forgets to forget the song.
And so, cakes and wine, and good‑night—and M. l'Abbé goes humming all the way home....
"Hé, quoi! pour des peccadilles
Gronder ces pauvres amours?
Les femmes sont si gentilles,
Et l'on n'aime pas toujours!
C'est bonhomme
Qu'on me nomme....
Ma gaîté, c'est mon trésor!
Et bonhomme vit encor'—
Et bonhomme vit encor'!"
"Hé, quoi! pour des peccadilles
Gronder ces pauvres amours?
Les femmes sont si gentilles,
Et l'on n'aime pas toujours!
C'est bonhomme
Qu'on me nomme....
Ma gaîté, c'est mon trésor!
Et bonhomme vit encor'—
Et bonhomme vit encor'!"
An extraordinary susceptibility to musical sound was growing in Barty since his trouble had overtaken him, and with it an extraordinary sensitiveness to the troubles of other people, their partings and bereavements and wants, and aches and pains, even those of people he didn't know; and especially the woes of children, and dogs and cats and horses, and aged folk—and all the live things that have to be driven to market and killed for our eating—or shot at for our fun!