The Martian: A Novel

by George Du Maurier

I have quite forgotten the rest.

Now this little song, which begins so innocently, like a sweet old idyl of mediæval France—"un écho du temps passé"—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 chanté" (I'll box the ears of every boy who sang).

So he puts all in a row and begins:

"Rubinel, sur votre parole d'honneur, avez‑vous chanté?"

"Non, m'sieur!"

"Caillard, avez‑vous chanté?"

"Non, m'sieur!"

"Lipmann, avez‑vous chanté?"