What a fresh and kind and jolly woman she was, to be sure! I wonder none of the masters married her. Perhaps they did! Let us hope it wasn't M. Dumollard!
It is such a pleasure to recall every incident of this epoch of my life and Barty's that I should like to go through our joint lives day by day, hour by hour, microscopically—to describe every book we read, every game we played, every pensum (i.e., imposition) we performed; every lark we were punished for—every meal we ate. But space forbids this self‑indulgence, and other considerations make it unadvisable—so I will resist the temptation.
La pension Brossard! How often have we both talked of it, Barty and I, as middle‑aged men; in the billiard‑room of the Marathoneum, let us say, sitting together on a comfortable couch, with tea and cigarettes—and always in French whispers! we could only talk of Brossard's in French.
"Te rappelles‑tu l'habit neuf de Berquin, et son chapeau haute‑forme?"
"'IF HE ONLY KNEW!'"
"Te souviens‑tu de la vieille chatte angora du père Jaurion?" etc., etc., etc.
Idiotic reminiscences! as charming to revive as any old song with words of little meaning that meant so much when one was four—five—six years old! before one knew even how to spell them!
"Paille à Dine—paille à Chine—
Paille à Suzette et Martine—
Bon lit à la Dumaine!"