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'œuvre 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'était un Capucin, oui bien, un père Capucin,
Qui confessait trois filles—
Itou, itou, itou, là là là!
Qui confessait trois filles
Au fond de son jardin—
Oui bien—
Au fond de son jardin!
Il dit à la plus jeune—
"C'était un Capucin, oui bien, un père Capucin,
Qui confessait trois filles—
Itou, itou, itou, là là là!
Qui confessait trois filles
Au fond de son jardin—
Oui bien—
Au fond de son jardin!
Il dit à la plus jeune—
Itou, itou, itou, là là là!
Il dit à la plus jeune
... 'Vous reviendrez demain!'"
Etc, etc., etc.
Itou, itou, itou, là là là!
Il dit à la plus jeune
... 'Vous reviendrez demain!'"
Etc, etc., etc.