In my time there was an old doorkeeper at the Institute whose indignation at all this procedure was most amusing. It was his duty to lock us up and let us out, and, being also usher to the Academicians, he was on the inside track and made some very odd notes.
He had been a cabin boy, which at once enlisted my sympathies; for I always loved sailors, and can listen imperturbably to their long-winded yarns; no matter how far they wander from the point I am always ready with a word to set them right again.
We were the best of friends, Pingard and I. One day, talking of Syria, he mentioned Volney.
“M. le Comte,” he said, “was so good and easy-going that he always wore blue woollen stockings.”
But his respect for me became unbounded enthusiasm when I asked whether he knew Levaillant.
“M. Levaillant!” he cried, “Rather! One day at the Cape I was sauntering along, whistling, when a big sun-burnt man with a beard turned round on me. I suppose he guessed I was French from my whistle. Of course I whistle in French, monsieur.
“‘I say, you young rogue, you’re French?’
“‘I should say I was. Givet is my part of the country.’
“‘Oh, you are French?’
“‘Yes.’