"Paille à Dine—paille à Chine—
Paille à Suzette et Martine—
Bon lit à la Dumaine!"
Céline, my nurse, used to sing this—and I never knew what it meant; nor do I now! But it was charming indeed.
Even now I dream that I go back to school, to get coached by Dumollard in a little more algebra. I wander about the playground; but all the boys are new, and don't even know my name; and silent, sad, and ugly, every one! Again Dumollard persecutes me. And in the middle of it I reflect that, after all, he is a person of no importance whatever, and that I am a member of the British Parliament—a baronet—a millionaire—and one of her Majesty's Privy Councillors! and that M. Dumollard must be singularly "out of it," even for a Frenchman, not to be aware of this.
"If he only knew!" says I to myself, says I—in my dream.
Besides, can't the man see with his own eyes that I'm grown up, and big enough to tuck him under my left arm, and spank him just as if he were a little naughty boy—confound the brute!
Then, suddenly:
"Maurice, au piquet pour une heure!"
"Moi, m'sieur?"
"Oui, vous!"
"Pourquoi, m'sieur!"