So ended the only quarrel we ever had.
Part Third
"Que ne puis‑je aller où s'en vont les roses,
Et n'attendre pas
Ces regrets navrants que la fin des choses
Nous garde ici‑bas!"—Anon.
"Que ne puis‑je aller où s'en vont les roses,
Et n'attendre pas
Ces regrets navrants que la fin des choses
Nous garde ici‑bas!"—Anon.
Barty worked very hard, and so did I—for me! Horace—Homer—Æschylus—Plato—etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., and all there was to learn in that French school-boy's encyclopædia—"Le Manuel du Baccalauréat"; a very thick book in very small print. And I came to the conclusion that it is good to work hard: it makes one enjoy food and play and sleep so keenly—and Thursday afternoons.
The school was all the pleasanter for having fewer boys; we got more intimate with each other, and with the masters too. During the winter M. Bonzig told us capital stories—Modeste Mignon, by Balzac—Le Chevalier de Maison‑rouge, by A. Dumas père—etc., etc.
In the summer the Passy swimming‑bath was more delightful than ever. Both winter and summer we passionately fenced with a pupil (un prévôt) of the famous M. Bonnet, and did gymnastics with M. Louis, the gymnastic master of the Collège Charlemagne—the finest man I ever saw—a gigantic dwarf six feet high, all made up of lumps of sinew and muscles, like....
Also, we were taught equitation at the riding‑school in the Rue Duphot.