Dumollard looked askance at Bonzig (between whom and himself not much love was lost) and walked off, jauntily twirling his mustache, and whistling a few bars of a very ungainly melody, to which the words ran:
"Non! jamais en France,
Jamais Anglais ne règnera!"
"Non! jamais en France,
Jamais Anglais ne règnera!"
As if we wanted to, good heavens!
(By‑the‑way, I suddenly remember that both Berquin and d'Orthez were let off as easily as Josselin and 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 à la retenue!"... "Maurice privé de bain!"... "Maurice consigné 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 Mérovée 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.