Her library seemed to me to be literally filled with the works of Anatole France and Pierre Loti, and my acquaintance with literature owing to my strict French upbringing being more than limited—I had scarcely ever read anything but fairy tales until then—I consequently found it extremely difficult to talk to our friends with any clear knowledge of those popular French authors about whom I was always being questioned.
Lily seemed to take me somewhat under her wing and gave me—at least in words—an insight into life; and with the passing of time I have often thought how very much to the point her doctrine was.
Colonel Echappard du Breuil was frequently to be seen at my aunt’s house, he claimed to be of French origin, his ancestors having escaped—échappé—across the Pyrenées into France at the time of the Moorish expulsion from Spain, during the reign of the “Catholic Kings,” Ferdinand and Isabella—hence the origin of this somewhat curious name.
The Colonel was attached to the suite of Grand Duke George, and whenever I asked him where he was going he always replied “To Christophky”—to the grand café-concert, on the island of that name at The Islands—and he never ceased expatiating on the charms of the fair and dark beauties of that delectable spot. He was a jolly fellow with a fat round face wreathed in smiles—he seemed to render the very atmosphere sunny.
And Lily behind the wings—dans les coulisses, as we say in France—used to hum to salute his departure the following refrain, which she had taught me and which we loved, this charming little refrain about the three cocks:—
Cocorico oooo
Quand je veux, je peux.
(Le jeune coq.)
Cocorico oooo
Quand je peux, je veux.
(Coq d’âge moyen.)
Cocorico ooooo
Que vous êtes heureux.
(Le vieux coq.)
Oh, how we did pity you, poor old man! And we did not allow feathers to grow in this hen coup, but, willy-nilly, spurs and uniform of some attaché de la suite.
Another character was General Tolstoi, whom I have already mentioned. He came very often to see us, especially when we were in Petrograd; he frequently spoke Russian and recounted interminably long stories in that language which I regret to say used to make me yawn, as I could not always follow them, and just to tease me, at the most critical part of the story, he rapidly changed from Russian into French so that my ears should receive the full benefit of it all. Quel toupet!