Every day, at school, I was jeered at and insulted. Even the babies of three years—sweet, blue-eyed, golden-haired cherubs—pointed at me with their tiny fingers, and lisped, "Canary! Canary!"
"I WAS JEERED AT AND INSULTED."
How was I to extricate myself from this extremely unpleasant situation? One upper garment still remained to me—an old, thick, heavy, winter mantle. The idea occurred to me that I might utilize this to conceal my too gorgeous plumage. We were now in the month of June, and the weather was tropical. No matter! In class and playground, I appeared buttoned up in my big cloak, bathed in perspiration, but happy in having hidden my shame.
To Mademoiselle Ermance's expression of surprise, I answered that I had a cold. I did not deviate widely from the truth. Two days later, thanks to this over-heating, I had a very real one.
The device did not serve me long. My parents found me out, and promptly deprived me of my protecting shell, thus obliging me to attend school again in the costume of a canary. The former annoyances re-commenced.
Vacation time was at hand, and Georgette, of whom I was more enamoured than ever, remained still cold and indifferent.
One day we were playing the game of brigands and gendarmes. I was one of the gendarmes, who were invariably beaten.
Met-à-Mort had nominated himself captain of the brigands, and chose Georgette for his vivandière.
Presently, for a few minutes there was a suspension of hostilities. Brigands and gendarmes fraternized, as they quenched their thirst, and expatiated upon the joys of the fray. Suddenly Georgette, with her accustomed vivacity, broke in upon our little group. She bore in her hands a glass ink-bottle.