Nine of these children—including one not yet born then—developed there into the finest and completest human beings, take them for all in all, that I have ever known; nine—a good number!

"Numero Deus impare gaudet."

Or, as poor Rapaud translated this (and was pinched black and blue by Pere Brossard in consequence):

"Le numero deux se rejouit d'etre impair!" (Number two takes a pleasure in being odd!)

The three sons—one of them now in the army, as becomes a Rohan; and one a sailor, as becomes a Josselin; and one a famous actor, the true Josselin of all—are the very types of what I should like for the fathers of my grandchildren, if I had marriageable daughters of my own.

And as for Barty's daughters, they are all—but one—so well known in society and the world—so famous, I may say—that I need hardly mention them here; all but Marty, my sweet little "maid of Dove."

When Barty took Marsfield he and I had entered what I have ever since considered the happiest decade of a successful and healthy man's life—the forties.

"Wait till you get to forty year!"

So sang Thackeray, but with a very different experience to mine. He seemed to look upon the fifth decade as the grave of all tender illusions and emotions, and exult!

My tender illusions and emotions became realties—things to live by and for. As Barty and I "dipped our noses in the Gascon wine"—Vougeot-Conti & Co.—I blessed my stars for being free of Marsfield, which was, and is still, my real home, and for the warm friendship of its inhabitants who have been my real family, and for several years of unclouded happiness all round.

Even in winter what a joy it was, after a long solitary walk, or ride, or drive, or railway journey, to suddenly find myself at dusk in the midst of all that warmth and light and gayety; what a contrast to the House of Commons; what a relief after Barge Yard or Downing Street; what tea that was, what crumpets and buttered toast, what a cigarette; what romps and jokes, and really jolly good fun; and all that delightful untaught music that afterwards became so cultivated! Music was a special inherited gift of the entire family, and no trouble or expense was ever spared to make the best and the most of it.

Roberta became the most finished and charming amateur pianist I ever heard, and as for Mary la rossignolle—Mrs. Trevor—she's almost as famous as if she had made singing her profession, as she once so wished to do. She married happily instead, a better profession still; and though her songs are as highly paid for as any—except, perhaps, Madame Patti's—every penny goes to the poor.

She can make a nigger melody sound worthy of Schubert and a song of Schumann go down with the common herd as if it were a nigger melody, and obtain a genuine encore for it from quite simple people.

Why, only the other night she and her husband dined with me at the Bristol, and we went to Baron Schwartzkind's in Piccadilly to meet Royal Highnesses.

Up comes the Baron with:

"Ach, Mrs. Drefor! vill you not zing zomzing? ze Brincess vould be so jarmt."

"I'll sing as much as you like, Baron, if you promise me you'll send a checque for L50 to the Foundling Hospital to-morrow morning," says Mary.

"I'll send another fifty, Baron," says Bob Maurice. And the Baron had to comply, and Mary sang again and again, and the Princess was more than charmed.

She declared herself enchanted, and yet it was Brahms and Schumann that Mary sang; no pretty little English ballad, no French, no Italian.

"Aus meinen Thraenen spriessen Viel' bluehende Blumen hervor; Und meine Seufze werden Ein Nachtigallen Chor...."

So sang Mary, and I declare some of the royal eyes were moist.

They all sang and played, these Josselins; and tumbled and acted, and were droll and original and fetching, as their father had been and was still; and, like him, amiable and full of exuberant life; and, like their mother, kind and appreciative and sympathetic and ever thoughtful of others, without a grain of selfishness or conceit.



They were also great athletes, boys and girls alike; good swimmers and riders, and first-rate oars. And though not as good at books and lessons as they might have been, they did not absolutely disgrace themselves, being so quick and intelligent.

Amid all this geniality and liveliness at home and this beauty of surrounding nature abroad, little Marty seemed to outgrow in a measure her constitutional delicacy.

It was her ambition to become as athletic as a boy, and she was persevering in all physical exercises—and throw stones very straight and far, with a quite easy masculine sweep of the arm; I taught her myself.

It was also her ambition to draw, and she would sit for an hour or more on a high stool by her father, or on the arm of his chair, and watch him at his work in silence. Then she would get herself paper and pencil, and try and do likewise; but discouragement would overtake her, and she would have to give it up in despair, with a heavy sigh and a clouded look on her lovely little pale face; and yet they were surprisingly clever, these attempts of hers.

Then she took to dictating a novel to her sisters and to me: it was all about an immense dog and three naughty boys, who were awful dunces at school and ran away to sea, dog and all; and performed heroic deeds in Central Africa, and grew up there, "booted and bearded, and burnt to a brick!" and never married or fell in love, or stooped to any nonsense of that kind.

This novel, begun in the handwriting of all of us, and continued in her own, remained unfinished; and the precious MS. is now in my possession. I have read it oftener than any other novel, French or English, except, perhaps, Vanity Fair!

I may say that I had something to do with the development of her literary faculty, as I read many good books to her before she could read quite comfortably for herself: Evenings at Home, The Swiss Family Robinson, Gulliver, Robinson Crusoe, books by Ballantyne, Marryat, Mayne Reid, Jules Verne, etc., and Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, The Wreck of the Grosvenor, and then her father's books, or some of them.

But even better than her famous novel were the stories she improvised to me in a small boat which I often rowed up-stream while she steered—one story, in particular, that had no end; she would take it up at any time.

She had imagined a world where all trees and flowers and vegetation (and some birds) were the size they are now; but men and beasts no bigger than Lilliputians, with houses and churches and buildings to match—and a family called Josselin living in a beautiful house called Marsfield, as big as a piano organ.

Endless were the adventures by flood and field of these little people: in the huge forest and on the gigantic river which it took them nearly an hour to cross in a steam-launch when the wind was high, or riding trained carrier-pigeons to distant counties, and the coasts of Normandy, Brittany, and Picardy, where everything was on a similar scale.

It would astonish me to find how vivid and real she could make these imaginations of hers, and to me how fascinating—oddly enough she reserved them for me only, and told no one else.

There was always an immensely big strong man, one Bobby Maurice, a good-natured giant, nearly three inches high and over two ounces in weight, who among other feats would eat a whole pea at a sitting, and hold out an acorn at arm's-length, and throw a pepper-corn over two yards—which has remained the record.

Then, coming back down-stream, she would take the sculls and I the tiller, and I would tell her (in French) all about our school adventures at Brossard's and Bonzig, and the Lafertes, and the Revolution of February; and in that way she picked up a lot of useful and idiomatic Parisian which considerably astonished Fraeulein Werner, the German governess, who yet knew French almost as well as her own language—almost as well as Mr. Ollendorff himself.

She also changed one of the heroes in her famous novel, Tommy Holt, into a French boy, and called him Rapaud!

She was even more devoted to animals than the rest of the family: the beautiful Angora, Kitty, died when Marty was five, from an abscess in her cheek, where she'd been bitten by a strange bull-terrier; and Marty tearfully wrote her epitaph in a beautiful round hand—

"Here lies Kitty, full of grace; Died of an abbess in her face!"

This was her first attempt at verse-making, and here's her last, from the French of Sully-Prudhomme:

"If you but knew what tears, alas! One weeps for kinship unbestowed, In pity you would sometimes pass My poor abode!

"If you but knew what balm, for all Despond, lies in an angel's glance, Your looks would on my window fall As though by chance!

"If you but knew the heart's delight To feel its fellow-heart is by, You'd linger, as a sister might, These gates anigh!

"If you but knew how oft I yearn For one sweet voice, one presence dear, Perhaps you'd even simply turn And enter here!"

She was only just seventeen when she wrote them, and, upon my word, I think they're almost as good as the original!

Her intimate friendship with Chucker-out, the huge St. Bernard, lasted for nearly both their lives, alas! It began when they both weighed exactly the same, and I could carry both in one arm. When he died he turned the scale at sixteen stone, like me.

It has lately become the fashion to paint big dogs and little girls, and engravings of these pictures are to be seen in all the print-sellers' shops. It always touches me very much to look at these works of art, although—and I hope it is not libellous to say so—the big dog is always hopelessly inferior in beauty and dignity and charm to Chucker-out, who was champion of his day. And as for the little girls—Ah, mon Dieu!

Such pictures are not high art of course, and that is why I don't possess one, as I've got an aesthetic character to keep up; but why they shouldn't be I can't guess. Is it because no high artist—except Briton Riviere—will stoop to so easily understood a subject?

A great master would not be above painting a small child or a big dog separately—why should he be above putting them both in the same picture? It would be too obvious, I suppose—like a melody by Mozart, or Handel's "Harmonious Blacksmith," or Schubert's Serenade, and other catchpenny tunes of the same description.

I was also very intimate with Chucker-out, who made more of me than he even did of his master.

One night I got very late to Marsfield by the last train, and, letting myself in with my key, I found Chucker-out waiting for me in the hall, and apparently in a very anxious frame of mind, and extremely demonstrative, wanting to say something more than usual—to confide a trouble, to confess!

We went up into the big music-room, which was still lighted, and lay on a couch together; he, with his head on my knees, whimpering softly as I smoked and read a paper.

Presently Leah came in and said:

"Such an unfortunate thing happened; Marty and Chucker-out were playing on the slope, and he knocked her down and sprained her knee."

As soon as Chucker-out heard Marty's name he sat up and whined piteously, and pawed me down with great violence; pawed three buttons off my waistcoat and broke my watch-chain—couldn't be comforted; the misadventure had been preying on his mind for hours.

I give this subject to Mr. Briton Riviere, who can paint both dogs and children, and everything else he likes. I will sit for him myself, if he wishes, and as a Catholic priest! He might call it a confession—and an absolution! or, "The Secrets of the Confessional."

The good dog became more careful in future, and restrained his exuberance even going down-stairs with Marty on the way to a ramble in the woods, which excited him more than anything; if he came down-stairs with anybody else, the violence of his joy was such that one had to hold on by the banisters. He was a dear, good beast, and a splendid body-guard for Marty in her solitary woodland rambles—never left her side for a second. I have often watched him from a distance, unbeknown to both; he was proud of his responsibility—almost fussy about it.

I have been fond of many dogs, but never yet loved a dog as I loved big Chucker-out—or Choucroute, as Coralie, the French maid, called him, to Fraeulein Werner's annoyance (Choucroute is French for sauerkraut); and I like to remember him in his splendid prime, guarding his sweet little mistress, whom I loved better than anything else on earth. She was to me a kind of pet Marjorie, and said such droll and touching things that I could almost fill a book with them. I kept a diary on purpose, and called it Martiana.

She was tall, but lamentably thin and slight, poor dear, with her mother's piercing black eyes and the very fair curly locks of her papa—a curious and most effective contrast—and features and a complexion of such extraordinary delicacy and loveliness that it almost gave one pain in the midst of the keen pleasure one had in the mere looking at her.

Heavens! how that face would light up suddenly at catching the unexpected sight of some one she was fond of! How often it has lighted up at the unexpected sight of "Uncle Bob"! The mere remembrance of that sweet illumination brightens my old age for me now; and I could almost wish her back again, in my senile selfishness and inconsistency. Pazienza!

Sometimes she was quite embarrassing in her simplicity, and reminded me of her father.

Once in Dieppe—when she was about eight—she and I had gone through the Etablissement to bathe, and people had stared at her even more than usual and whispered to each other.

"I bet you don't know why they all stare so, Uncle Bob?"

"I give it up," said I.

"It's because I'm so handsome—we're all handsome, you know, and I'm the handsomest of the lot, it seems! You're not handsome, Uncle Bob. But oh! aren't you strong! Why, you could tuck a piou-piou under one arm and a postman under the other and walk up to the castle with them and pitch them into the sea, couldn't you? And that's better than being handsome, isn't it? I wish I was like that."

And here she cuddled and kissed my hand.

When Mary began to sing (under Signor R.) it was her custom of an afternoon to lock herself up alone with a tuning-fork in a large garret and practise, as she was shy of singing exercises before any one else.

Her voice, even practising scales, would give Marty extraordinary pleasure, and me, too. Marty and I have often sat outside and listened to Mary's rich and fluent vocalizings; and I hoped that Marty would develop a great voice also, as she was so like Mary in face and disposition, except that Mary's eyes were blue and her hair very black, and her health unexceptionable.

Marty did not develop a real voice, although she sang very prettily and confidentially to me, and worked hard at the piano with Roberta; she learned harmony and composed little songs, and wrote words to them, and Mary or her father would sing them to her and make her happy beyond description.

Happy! she was always happy during the first few years of her life—from five or six to twelve.

I like to think her happiness was so great for this brief period, that she had her full share of human felicity just as if she had lived to the age of the Psalmist.

It seemed everybody's business at Marsfield to see that Marty had a good time. This was an easy task, as she was so easy to amuse; and when amused, herself so amusing to others.

As for me, it is hardly too much to say that every hour I could spare from business and the cares of state was spent in organizing the amusement of little Marty Josselin, and I was foolish enough to be almost jealous of her own father and mother's devotion to the same object.

Unlike her brothers and sisters, she was a studious little person, and fond of books—too much so indeed, for all she was such a tomboy; and all this amusement was designed by us with the purpose of winning her away from the too sedulous pursuit of knowledge. I may add that in temper and sweetness of disposition the child was simply angelic, and could not be spoiled by any spoiling.

It was during these happy years at Marsfield that Barty, although bereft of his Martia ever since that farewell letter, managed, nevertheless, to do his best work, on lines previously laid down for him by her.

For the first year or two he missed the feeling of the north most painfully—it was like the loss of a sense—but he grew in time accustomed to the privation, and quite resigned; and Marty, whom he worshipped—as did her mother—compensated him for the loss of his demon.

Inaccessible Heights, Floreal et Fructidor, The Infinitely Little, The Northern Pactolus, Pandore et sa Boite, Cancer and Capricorn, Phoebus et Selene followed each other in leisurely succession. And he also found time for those controversies that so moved and amused the world; among others, his famous and triumphant confutation of Canon ——, on one hand, and Professor ——, the famous scientist, on the other, which has been compared to the classic litigation about the oyster, since the oyster itself fell to Barty's share, and a shell to each of the two disputants.

Orthodox and agnostic are as the poles asunder, yet they could not but both agree with Barty Josselin, who so cleverly extended a hand to each, and acted as a conductor between them.

That irresistible optimism which so forces itself upon all Josselin's readers, who number by now half the world, and will probably one day include the whole of it—when the whole of it is civilized—belonged to him by nature, by virtue of his health and his magnificent physique and his happy circumstances, and an admirably balanced mind, which was better fitted for his particular work and for the world's good than any special gift of genius in one direction.

His literary and artistic work never cost him the slightest effort. It amused him to draw and write more than did anything else in the world, and he always took great pains, and delighted in taking them; but himself he never took seriously for one moment—never realized what happiness he gave, and was quite unconscious of the true value of all he thought and wrought and taught!

He laughed good-humoredly at the passionate praise that for thirty years was poured upon him from all quarters of the globe, and shrugged his shoulders at the coarse invective of those whose religious susceptibilities he had so innocently wounded; left all published insults unanswered; never noticed any lie printed about himself—never wrote a paragraph in explanation or self-defence, but smoked many pipes and mildly wondered.

Indeed he was mildly wondering all his life: at his luck—at all the ease and success and warm domestic bliss that had so compensated him for the loss of his left eye and would almost have compensated him for the loss of both.

"It's all because I'm so deuced good-looking!" says Barty—"and so's Leah!"

And all his life he sorrowed for those who were less fortunate than himself. His charities and those of his wife were immense—he gave all the money, and she took all the trouble.

"C'est papa qui paie et maman qui regale," as Marty would say; and never were funds distributed more wisely.

But often at odd moments the Weltschmerz, the sorrow of the world, would pierce this man who no longer felt sorrows of his own—stab him through and through—bring the sweat to his temples—fill his eyes with that strange pity and trouble that moved you so deeply when you caught the look; and soon the complicated anguish of that dim regard would resolve itself into gleams of a quite celestial sweetness—and a heavenly message would go forth to mankind in such simple words that all might read who ran....

All these endowments of the heart and brain, which in him were masculine and active, were possessed in a passive form by his wife; instead of the buoyant energy and boisterous high spirits, she had patience and persistency that one felt to be indomitable, and a silent sympathy that never failed, and a fund of cheerfulness and good sense on which any call might be made by life without fear of bankruptcy; she was of those who could play a losing game and help others to play it—and she never had a losing game to play!

These gifts were inherited by their children, who, more-over, were so fed on their father's books—so imbued with them—that one felt sure of their courage, endurance, and virtue, whatever misfortunes or temptations might assail them in this life.

One felt this especially with the youngest but one, Marty, who, with even more than her due share of those gifts of the head and heart they had all inherited from their two parents, had not inherited their splendid frames and invincible health.

Roderick, alias Mark Tapley, alias Chips, who is now the sailor, was, oddly enough, the strongest and the hardiest of the whole family, and yet he was born two years after Marty. She always declared she brought him up and made a man of him, and taught him how to throw stones, and how to row and ride and swim; and that it was entirely to her he owed it that he was worthy to be a sailor—her ideal profession for a man.

He was devoted to her, and a splendid little chap, and in the holidays he and she and I were inseparable, and of course Chucker-out, who went with us wherever it was—Havre, Dieppe, Dinard, the Highlands, Whitby, etc.

Once we were privileged to settle ourselves for two months in Castle Rohan, through the kindness of Lord Whitby; and that was the best holiday of all—for the young people especially. And more especially for Barty himself, who had such delightful boyish recollections of that delightful place, and found many old friends among the sailors and fisher people—who remembered him as a boy.

Chips and Marty and I and the faithful Chucker-out were never happier than on those staiths where there is always such an ancient and fishlike smell; we never tired of watching the miraculous draughts of silver herring being disentangled from the nets and counted into baskets, which were carried on the heads of the stalwart, scaly fishwomen, and packed with salt and ice in innumerable barrels for Billingsgate and other great markets; or else the sales by auction of huge cod and dark-gray dog-fish as they lay helpless all of a row on the wet flags amid a crowd of sturdy mariners looking on, with their hands in their pockets and their pipes in their mouths.

Then over that restless little bridge to the picturesque old town, and through its long, narrow street, and up the many stone steps to the ruined abbey and the old church on the East Cliff; and the old churchyard, where there are so many stones in memory of those who were lost at sea.

It was good to be there, in such good company, on a sunny August morning, and look around and about and down below: the miles and miles of purple moor, the woods of Castle Rohan, the wide North Sea, which turns such a heavenly blue beneath a cloudless sky; the two stone piers, with each its lighthouse, and little people patiently looking across the waves for Heaven knows what! the busy harbor full of life and animation; under our feet the red roofs of the old town and the little clock tower of the market-place; across the stream the long quay with its ale-houses and emporiums and jet shops and lively traffic; its old gabled dwellings and their rotting wooden balconies. And rising out of all this, tier upon tier, up the opposite cliff, the Whitby of the visitors, dominated by a gigantic windmill that is—or was—almost as important a landmark as the old abbey itself.

To the south the shining river ebbs and flows, between its big ship-building yards and the railway to York, under endless moving craft and a forest of masts, now straight on end, now slanting helplessly on one side when there's not water enough to float their keels; and the long row of Cornish fishing-smacks, two or three deep.

How the blue smoke of their cooking wreathes upward in savory whiffs and whirls! They are good cooks, these rovers from Penzance, and do themselves well, and remind us that it is time to go and get lunch at the hotel.

We do, and do ourselves uncommonly well also; and afterwards we take a boat, we four (if the tide serves), and row up for a mile or so to a certain dam at Ruswarp, and there we take another boat on a lovely little secluded river, which is quite independent of tides, and where for a mile or more the trees bend over us from either side as we leisurely paddle along and watch the leaping salmon-trout, pulling now and then under a drooping ash or weeping-willow to gaze and dream or chat, or read out loud from Sylvia's Lovers; Sylvia Robson once lived in a little farm-house near Upgang, which we know well, and at Whitby every one reads about Sylvia Robson; or else we tell stories, or inform each other what a jolly time we're having, and tease old Chucker-out, who gets quite excited, and we admire the discretion with which he disposes of his huge body as ballast to trim the boat, and remains perfectly still in spite of his excitement for fear he should upset us. Indeed, he has been learning all his life how to behave in boats, and how to get in and out of them.

And so on till tea-time at five, and we remember there's a little inn at Sleights, where the scones are good; or, better still, a leafy garden full of raspberry-bushes at Cock Mill, where they give excellent jam with your tea, and from which there are three ways of walking back to Whitby when there's not enough water to row—and which is the most delightful of those three ways has never been decided yet.

Then from the stone pier we watch a hundred brown-sailed Cornish fishing-smacks follow each other in single file across the harbor bar and go sailing out into the west as the sun goes down—a most beautiful sight, of which Marty feels all the mystery and the charm and the pathos, and Chips all the jollity and danger and romance.

Then to the trap, and home all four of us au grand trot, between the hedge-rows and through the splendid woods of Castle Rohan; there at last we find all the warmth and light and music and fun of Marsfield, and many good things besides: supper, dinner, tea—all in one; and happy, healthy, hungry, indefatigable boys and girls who've been trapesing over miles and miles of moor and fell, to beautiful mills and dells and waterfalls—too many miles for slender Marty or little Chips; or even Bob and Chucker-out—who weigh thirty-two stone between them, and are getting lazy in their old age, and fat and scant of breath.

Whitby is an ideal place for young people; it almost makes old people feel young themselves there when the young are about; there is so much to do.

I, being the eldest of the large party, chummed most of the time with the two youngest and became a boy again; so much so that I felt myself almost a sneak when I tactfully tried to restrain such exuberance of spirits on their part as might have led them into mischief: indeed it was difficult not to lead them into mischief myself; all the old inventiveness (that had got me and others into so many scrapes at Brossard's) seemed to come back, enhanced by experience and maturity.

At all events, Marty and Chips were happier with me than without—of that I feel quite sure, for I tested it in many ways.

I always took immense pains to devise the kinds of excursion that would please them best, and these never seemed to fail of their object; and I was provident and well skilled in all details of the commissariat (Chips was healthily alimentative); I was a very Bradshaw at trains and times and distances, and also, if I am not bragging too much, and making myself out an Admirable Crichton, extremely weatherwise, and good at carrying small people pickaback when they got tired.

Marty was well up in local folk-lore, and had mastered the history of Whitby and St. Hilda, and Sylvia Robson; and of the old obsolete whaling-trade, in which she took a passionate interest; and fixed poor little Chips's mind with a passion for the Polar regions (he is now on the coast of Senegambia).

We were much on the open sea ourselves, in cobles; sometimes the big dog with us—"Joomboa," as the fishermen called him; and they marvelled at his good manners and stately immobility in a boat.

One afternoon—a perfect afternoon—we took tea at Runswick, from which charming little village the Whitbys take their second title, and had ourselves rowed round the cliffs to Staithes, which we reached just before sunset; Chips and his sister also taking an oar between them, and I another. There, on the brink of the little bay, with the singularly quaint and picturesque old village behind it, were fifty fishing-boats side by side waiting to be launched, and all the fishing population of Staithes were there to launch them—men, women and children; as we landed we were immediately pressed into the service.

Marty and Chips, wild with enthusiasm, pushed and yo-ho'd with the best; and I also won some commendation by my hearty efforts in the common cause. Soon the coast was clear of all but old men and boys, women and children, and our four selves; and the boats all sailed westward, in a cluster, and lost themselves in the golden haze. It was the prettiest sight I ever saw, and we were all quite romantic about it.

Chucker-out held a small court on the sands, and was worshipped and fed with stale fish by a crowd of good-looking and agreeable little lasses and lads who called him "Joomboa," and pressed Chips and Marty for biographical details about him, and were not disappointed. And I smoked a pipe of pipes with some splendid old salts, and shared my Honeydew among them.

Nous etions bien, la!

So sped those happy weeks—with something new and exciting every day—even on rainy days, when we wore waterproofs and big india-rubber boots and sou'westers, and Chucker-out's coat got so heavy with the soak that he could hardly drag himself along: and we settled, we three at least, that we would never go to France or Scotland—never any more—never anywhere in the world but Whitby, jolly Whitby—

Ah me! l'homme propose....

Marty always wore a red woollen fisherman's cap that hung down behind over the waving masses of her long, thick yellow hair—a blue jersey of the elaborate kind women knit on the Whitby quay—a short, striped petticoat like a Boulogne fishwife's, and light brown stockings on her long, thin legs.

I have a photograph of her like that, holding a shrimping-net; with a magnifying-glass, I can see the little high-light in the middle of each jet-black eye—and every detail and charm and perfection of her childish face. Of all the art-treasures I've amassed in my long life, that is to me the most beautiful, far and away—but I can't look at it yet for more than a second at a time....

"O tempo passato, perche non ritorni?"

As Mary is so fond of singing to me sometimes, when she thinks I've got the blues. As if I haven't always got the blues!

All Barty's teaching is thrown away on me, now that he's not here himself to point his moral—

"Et je m'en vais Au vent mauvais Qui m'emporte Deca, dela, Pareil a la Feuille morte...."

Heaven bless thee, Mary dear, rossignolet de mon ame! Would thou wert ever by my side! fain would I keep thee for myself in a golden cage, and feed thee on the tongues of other nightingales, so thou mightst warble every day, and all day long. By some strange congenital mystery the native tuning of thy voice is such, for me, that all the pleasure of my past years seems to go forever ringing in every single note. Thy dear mother speaks again, thy gay young father rollicks and jokes and sings, and little Marty laughs her happy laugh.

Da capo, e da capo, Mary—only at night shouldst thou cease from thy sweet pipings, that I might smoke myself to sleep, and dream that all is once more as it used to be.

* * * * *

The writing, such as it is, of this life of Barty Josselin—which always means the writing of so much of my own—has been to me, up to the present moment, a great source of consolation, almost of delight, when the pen was in my hand and I dived into the past.

But now the story becomes such a record of my own personal grief that I have scarcely the courage to go on; I will get through it as quickly as I can.

It was at the beginning of the present decade that the bitter thing arose—medio de fonte leporum; just as all seemed so happy and secure at Marsfield.

One afternoon in May I arrived at the house, and nobody was at home; but I was told that Marty was in the wood with old Chucker-out, and I went thither to find her, loudly whistling a bar which served as a rallying signal to the family. It was not answered, but after a long hunt I found Marty lying on the ground at the foot of a tree, and Chucker-out licking her face and hands.

She had been crying, and seemed half-unconscious.

When I spoke to her she opened her eyes and said:

"Oh, Uncle Bob, I have hurt myself so! I fell down that tree. Do you think you could carry me home?"

Beside myself with terror and anxiety, I took her up as gently as I could, and made my way to the house. She had hurt the base of her spine as she fell on the roots of the tree; but she seemed to get better as soon as Sparrow, the nurse, had undressed her and put her to bed.

I sent for the doctor, however, and he thought, after seeing her, that I should do well to send for Dr. Knight.

Just then Leah and Barty came in, and we telegraphed for Dr. Knight, who came at once.

Next day Dr. Knight thought he had better have Sir —— ——, and there was a consultation.

Marty kept her bed for two or three days, and then seemed to have completely recovered but for a slight internal disturbance, brought on by the concussion, and which did not improve.

One day Dr. Knight told me he feared very much that this would end in a kind of ataxia of the lower limbs—it might be sooner or later; indeed, it was Sir —— ——'s opinion that it would be sure to do so in the end—that spinal paralysis would set in, and that the child would become a cripple for life, and for a life that would not be long.

I had to tell this to her father and mother.

* * * * *

Marty, however, recovered all her high spirits. It was as if nothing had happened or could happen, and during six months everything at Marsfield went on as usual but for the sickening fear that we three managed to conceal in our hearts, even from each other.

At length, one day as Marty and I were playing lawn-tennis, she suddenly told me that her feet felt as if they were made of lead, and I knew that the terrible thing had come....

I must really pass over the next few months.

In the summer of the following year she could scarcely walk without assistance, and soon she had to go about in a bath-chair.

Soon, also, she ceased to be conscious when her lower limbs were pinched and pricked till an interval of about a second had elapsed, and this interval increased every month. She had no natural consciousness of her legs and feet whatever unless she saw them, although she could move them still and even get in and out of bed, or in and out of her bath-chair, without much assistance, so long as she could see her lower limbs. Often she would stumble and fall down, even on a grassy lawn. In the dark she could not control her movements at all.

She was also in constant pain, and her face took on permanently the expression that Barty's often wore when he thought he was going blind in Malines, although, like him in those days, she was always lively and droll, in spite of this heavy misfortune, which seemed to break every heart at Marsfield except her own.

For, alas! Barty Josselin, who has so lightened for us the sorrow of mere bereavement, and made quick-coming death a little thing—for some of us, indeed, a lovely thing—has not taught us how to bear the sufferings of those we love, the woful ache of pity for pangs we are powerless to relieve and can only try to share.

Endeavor as I will, I find I cannot tell this part of my story as it should be told; it should be a beautiful story of sweet young feminine fortitude and heroic resignation—an angel's story.

During the four years that Martia's illness lasted the only comfort I could find in life was to be with her—reading to her, teaching her blaze, rowing her on the river, driving her, pushing or dragging her bath-chair; but, alas! watching her fade day by day.

Strangely enough, she grew to be the tallest of all her sisters, and the most beautiful in the face; she was so wasted and thin she could hardly be said to have had a body or limbs at all.

I think the greatest pleasure she had was to lie and be sung to by Mary or her father, or played to by Roberta, or chatted to about domestic matters by Leah, or read to by me. She took the keenest interest in everything that concerned us all; she lived out of herself entirely, and from day to day, taking short views of life.

It filled her with animation to see the people who came to the house and talk with them; and among these she made many passionately devoted friends.

There were also poor children from the families of laborers in the neighborhood, in whom she had always taken a warm interest. She now organized them into regular classes, and taught and amused them and told them stories, sang funny songs to them, and clothed and fed them with nice things, and they grew to her an immense hobby and constant occupation.

She also became a quite surprising performer on the banjo, which her father had taught her when she was quite a little girl, and invented charming tunes and effects and modulations that had never been tried on that humble instrument before. She could have made a handsome living out of it, crippled as she was.

She seemed the busiest, drollest, and most contented person in Marsfield; she all but consoled us for the dreadful thing that had happened to herself, and laughingly pitied us for pitying her.

So much for the teaching of Barty Josselin, whose books she knew by heart, and constantly read and reread.

And thus, in spite of all, the old, happy, resonant cheerfulness gradually found its way back to Marsfield, as though nothing had happened; and poor broken Marty, who had always been our idol, became our goddess, our prop and mainstay, the angel in the house, the person for every one to tell their troubles to—little or big—their jokes, their good stories; there was never a laugh like hers, so charged with keen appreciation of the humorous thing, the relish of which would come back to her again and again at any time—even in the middle of the night when she could not always sleep for her pain; and she would laugh anew.

Ida Scatcherd and I, with good Nurse Sparrow to help, wished to take her to Italy—to Egypt—but she would not leave Marsfield, unless it were to spend the winter months with all of us at Lancaster Gate, or the autumn in the Highlands or on the coast of Normandy.



And indeed neither Barty nor Leah nor the rest could have got on without her; they would have had to come, too—brothers, sisters, young husbands, grandchildren, and all.

Never but once did she give way. It was one June evening, when I was reading to her some favorite short poems out of Browning's Men and Women on a small lawn surrounded with roses, and of which she was fond.

The rest of the family were on the river, except her father and mother, who were dressing to go and dine with some neighbors; for a wonder, as they seldom dined away from home.

The carriage drove up to the door to fetch them, and they came out on the lawn to wish us good-night.

Never had I been more struck with the splendor of Barty and his wife, now verging towards middle age, as they bent over to kiss their daughter, and he cut capers and cracked little jokes to make her laugh.

Leah's hair was slightly gray and her magnificent figure somewhat matronly, but there were no other signs of autumn; her beautiful white skin was still as delicate as a baby's, her jet-black eyes as bright and full, her teeth just as they were thirty years back.

Tall as she was, her husband towered over her, the finest and handsomest man of his age I have ever seen. And Marty gazed after them with her heart in her eyes as they drove off.

"How splendid they are, Uncle Bob!"

Then she looked down at her own shrunken figure and limbs—her long, wasted legs and her thin, slight feet that were yet so beautifully shaped.

And, hiding her face in her hands, she began to cry:

"And I'm their poor little daughter—oh dear, oh dear!"

She wept silently for a while, and I said nothing, but endured an agony such as I cannot describe.

Then she dried her eyes and smiled, and said:

"What a goose I am," and, looking at me—

"Oh! Uncle Bob, forgive me; I've made you very unhappy—it shall never happen again!"

Suddenly the spirit moved me to tell her the story of Martia.

Leah and Barty and I had often discussed whether she should be told this extraordinary thing, in which we never knew whether to believe or not, and which, if there were a possibility of its being true, concerned Marty so directly.

They settled that they would leave it entirely to me—to tell her or not, as my own instinct would prompt me, should the opportunity occur.

My instinct prompted me to do so now. I shall not forget that evening.

The full moon rose before the sun had quite set, and I talked on and on. The others came in to dinner. She and I had some dinner brought to us out there, and on I talked—and she could scarcely eat for listening. I wrapped her well up, and lit pipe after pipe, and went on talking, and a nightingale sang, but quite unheard by Marty Josselin.

She did not even hear her sister Mary, whose voice went lightly up to heaven through the open window:

"Oh that we two were maying!"

And when we parted that night she thanked and kissed me so effusively I felt that I had been happily inspired.

"I believe every word of it's true; I know it, I feel it! Uncle Bob, you have changed my life; I have often desponded when nobody knew—but never again! Dear papa! Only think of him! As if any human being alive could write what he has written without help from above or outside. Of course it's all true; I sometimes think I can almost remember things.... I'm sure I can."

Barty and Leah were well pleased with me when they came home that night.

That Marty was doomed to an early death did not very deeply distress them. It is astonishing how lightly they thought of death, these people for whom life seemed so full of joy; but that she should ever be conscious of the anguish of her lot while she lived was to them intolerable—a haunting preoccupation.

To me, a narrower and more selfish person, Marty had almost become to me life itself—her calamity had made her mine forever; and life without her had become a thing not to be conceived: her life was my life.

That life of hers was to be even shorter than we thought, and I love to think that what remained of it was made so smooth and sweet by what I told her that night.

I read all Martia's blaze letters to her, and helped her to read them for herself, and so did Barty. She got to know them by heart—especially the last; she grew to talk as Martia wrote; she told me of strange dreams she had often had—dreams she had told Sparrow and her own brothers and sisters when she was a child—wondrous dreams, in their seeming confirmation of what seemed to us so impossible. Her pains grew slighter and ceased.

And now her whole existence had become a dream—a tranquil, happy dream; it showed itself in her face, its transfigured, unearthly beauty—in her cheerful talk, her eager sympathy; a kind of heavenly pity she seemed to feel for those who had to go on living out their normal length of days. And always the old love of fun and frolic and pretty tunes.

Her father would make her laugh till she cried, and the same fount of tears would serve when Mary sang Brahms and Schubert and Lassen to her—and Roberta played Chopin and Schumann by the hour.

So she might have lived on for a few years—four or five—even ten. But she died at seventeen, of mere influenza, very quickly and without much pain. Her father and mother were by her bedside when her spirit passed away, and Dr. Knight, who had brought her into the world.

She woke from a gentle doze and raised her head, and called out in a clear voice:

"Barty—Leah—come, to me, come!"

And fell back dead.

Barty bowed his head and face on her hand, and remained there as if asleep. It was Leah who drew her eyelids down.

An hour later Dr. Knight came to me, his face distorted with grief.

"It's all over?" I said.

"Yes, it's all over."

"And Leah?"

"Mrs. Josselin is with her husband. She's a noble woman; she seems to bear it well."

"And Barty?"

"Barty Josselin is no more."

THE END



GLOSSARY

[First figure indicates Page; second figure, Line.]

3, 26. odium theologicum—theological hatred.

3, 27. saeva indignatio—fierce indignation.

5, 1. "De Paris a Versailles," etc.— "From Paris to Versailles, lon, la, From Paris to Versailles— There are many fine walks, Hurrah for the King of France! There are many fine walks, Hurrah for the school-boys!"

5, 2. salle d'etudes des petits—study-room of the smaller boys.

6, 11. parloir—parlor.

6, 14. e da capo—and over again.

6, 16. le Grand Bonzig—the Big Bonzig.

6, 17. estrade—platform.

8, 2. a la malcontent—convict style.

8, 5. ceinture de gymnastique—a wide gymnasium belt.

8, 16. marchand de coco—licorice-water seller.

8, 17. Orpheonistes—members of musical societies.

8, 32. exceptis excipiendis—exceptions being made.

9, 10. "Infandum, regina, jubes renovare" ("dolorem"), etc. "Thou orderest me, O queen, to renew the unutterable grief."

9, 17. "Mouche-toi donc, animal! tu me degoutes, a la fin!"—"Blow your nose, you beast, you disgust me!"

9, 20. "Taisez-vous, Maurice—ou je vous donne cent vers a copier! "—"Hold your tongue, Maurice, or I will give you a hundred lines to copy!"

10, 20. "Oui, m'sieur!"—"Yes, sir!"

10, 25. "Moi, m'sieur?"—"I, sir?"

10, 26. "Oui, vous!"—"Yes, you!"

10, 27. "Bien, m'sieur!"—"Very well, sir!"

10, 31. "Le Roi qui passe!"—"There goes the King!"

12, 3. "Fermez les fenetres, ou je vous mets tous au pain sec Pour un mois!"—"Shut the windows, or I will put you all on dry bread for a month!"

13, 1. "Soyez diligent et attentif, mon ami; a plus tard!"—"Be Diligent and attentive, my friend; I will see you later!"

13, 6. en cinquieme—in the fifth class.

13, 11. le nouveau—the new boy.

14, 8. "Fermez votre pupitre"—"Shut your desk."

14, 34. jocrisse—effeminate man.

15, 1. paltoquet—clown. petit polisson—little scamp.

15, 32. lingere—seamstress.

16, 13. quatrieme—fourth class.

16, 21. "Notre Pere, ... les replies les plus profonds de nos coeurs"—"Our Father, who art in heaven, Thou whose searching glance penetrates even to the inmost recesses of our hearts."

16, 24. "au nom du Pere, du Fils, et du St. Esprit, ainsi soit-il!"—"in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, so be it!"

18, 21. concierge—janitor. croquets—crisp almond cakes.

18, 22. blom-boudingues—plum puddings. pains d'epices—gingerbreads. sucre-d'orge—barley sugar.

18, 23. nougat—almond cake. pate de guimauve—marshmallow paste. pralines—burnt almonds. dragees—sugarplums.

18, 30. le pere et la mere—father and mother.

19, 2. corps de logis—main buildings.

19, 13. la table des grands—the big boys' table. la table des petits—the little boys' table.

19, 27. brouet noir des Lacedemoniens—the black broth of the Spartans.

20, 25. A la retenue—To be kept in.

20, 29. barres traversieres—crossbars.

20, 30. la raie—leap-frog.

21, 14. rentiers—stockholders.

21, 20. Classe d'Histoire de France au moyen age—Class of the History of France during the Middle Ages.

21, 27. trente-septieme legere—thirty-seventh light infantry.

22, 13. nous avons change tout cela!—we have changed all that!

22, 16. representant du peuple—representative of the people.

22, 19. les nobles—the nobles.

22, 27. par parenthese—by way of parenthesis.

22, 30. lingerie—place where linen is kept.

24, 30. Berthe aux grands pieds—Bertha of the big feet. (She was the mother of Charlemagne, and is mentioned in the poem that Du Maurier elsewhere calls "that never to be translated, never to be imitated lament, the immortal 'Ballade des Dames du Temps Jadis'" of Francois Villon.)

25, 23. Allee du Bois de Boulogne—Lane of the Bois de Boulogne.

25, 28. pensionnat—boarding-school.

28, 4. la belle Madame de Ronsvic—the beautiful Lady Runswick.

28, 33. deuxieme Spahis—second Spahi regiment.

30, 4. Mare aux Biches—The Roes Pool.

30, 14. la main si malheureuse—such an unfortunate hand.

31. 2. La Dieppoise—a dance of Dieppe.

31, 5. "Beuvons, donc," etc. "Let's drink, drink, drink then Of this, the best wine in the world ... Let's drink, drink, drink then Of this, the very best wine! For if I didn't drink it, I might get the pip! Which would make me...."

31, 13. "Ah, mon Dieu! quel amour d'enfant! Oh! gardons-le!"—"Ah, my Lord! what a love of a child! Oh! let us keep him!"

32, 5. caeteris paribus—other things being equal.

34, 19. a propos—seasonable.

35, 3. chaire—master's raised desk.

35, 6. recueillement—contemplation.

35, 11. "Non, m'sieur, je n'dors pas. J' travaille."—"No, sir, I'm not asleep. I'm working."

36, 1. a la porte—to leave the room.

36, 14. On demande Monsieur Josselin au parloir—Mr. Josselin is Wanted in the parlor.

36, 24. pensum—a task.

36, 31. maitre de mathematiques (et de cosmographie)—teacher of mathematics (and cosmography).

37, 17. Mes compliments—My compliments.

38, 5. "Quelquefois je sais ... il n'y a pas a s'y tromper!"—"Sometimes I know—sometimes I don't—but when I know, I know, and there is no mistake about it!"

38, 18. "A l'amandier!"—"At the almond-tree!"

38, 21. la balle au camp—French baseball.

39, 6. aussi simple que bonjour—as easy as saying good-day.

40, 17. "C'etait pour Monsieur Josselin."—"It was for Mr. Josselin!"

41, 11. quorum pars magna fui—of which I was a great part.

41, 16. bourgeois gentilhomme—citizen gentleman. (The title of one of Moliere's comedies in which M. Jourdain is the principal character.)

42, 29. Dis donc—Say now.

43, 4. "Ma foi, non! c'est pas pour ca!"—"My word, no! it isn't for that!"

43, 5. "Pourquoi, alors?"—"Why, then?"

43, 21. Jolivet trois—the third Jolivet.

44, 2. au rabais—at bargain sales.

44, 32. "Comme c'est bete, de s'battre, hein?"—"How stupid it is to fight, eh?"

45, 9. tuum et meum—thine and mine.

45, 19. magnifique—magnificent.

45, 32. La quatrieme Dimension—The fourth Dimension.

46, 14. Etoiles mortes—Dead Stars.

46, 15. Les Trepassees de Francois Villon—The Dead of Francois Villon.

46, 29. Ecole des Ponts et Chaussees—School of Bridges and Roads.

47, 8. en cachette—in hiding. Quelle sacree pose!—What a damned bluff!

47, 12. "Dis donc, Maurice!—prete-moi ton Ivanhoe!"—"Say now, Maurice!—lend me your Ivanhoe!"

47, 20. "Rapaud, comment dit-on 'pouvoir' en anglais?"—"Rapaud, how do they say 'to be able' in English?"

47, 21. "Sais pas, m'sieur!"—"Don't know, sir!"

47, 22. "Comment, petit cretin, tu ne sais pas!"—"What, little idiot, you don't know!"

47, 26. "Je n' sais pas!"—"I don't know!"

47, 27. "Et toi, Maurice"—"And you, Maurice?"

47, 28. "Ca se dit 'to be able' m'sieur!"—"They would say 'to be able,' sir!"

47, 29. "Mais non, mon ami ... 'je voudrais pouvoir'?"—"Why no, my friend—you forget your native language—they would say 'to can'! Now, how would you say, 'I would like to be able' in English?"

47, 32. Je dirais—I would say.

47, 33. "Comment, encore! petit cancre! allons—tu es Anglais—tu sais bien que tu dirais!"—"What, again! Little dunce—come, you are English—you know very well that you would say, ..."

48, 1. A ton tour—Your turn.

48, 4. "Oui, toi—comment dirais-tu, 'je pourrais vouloir'?"—"Yes, you—how would you say 'I would be able to will'?"

48, 7. "A la bonne heure! au moins tu sais ta langue, toi!"—"Well and good! you at least know your language!"

48, 17. Ile des Cygnes—Isle of Swans.

48, 18. Ecole de Natation—Swimming-school.

48, 26. Jardin des Plantes—The Paris Zoological Gardens.

49, 1. "Laissons les regrets et les pleurs A la vieillesse; Jeunes, il faut cueillir les fleurs De la jeunesse!"—Baif.

"Let us leave regrets and tears To age; Young, we must gather the flowers Of youth."

49, 13. demi-tasse—small cup of coffee.

49, 14. chasse-cafe—drink taken after coffee.

49, 19. consommateur—consumer.

49, 21. Le petit mousse noir—The little black cabin boy.

49, 24. "Allons, Josselin, chante-nous ca!"—"Come, Josselin, sing that to us!"

50, 7. "Ecoute-moi bien, ma Fleurette"—"Listen well to me, my Fleurette." "Amis, la matinee est belle"—"Friends, the morning is fine."

50, 12. "Conduis ta barque avec prudence," etc. "Steer thy bark with prudence, Fisherman! speak low! Throw thy nets in silence, Fisherman! speak low! And through our toils the king Of the seas can never go."

52, 21. Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle—Boulevard of Good News.

52, 24. galette du gymnase—flat cake, sold in booths near the Theatre du Gymnase.

52, 26. yashmak—a double veil worn by Turkish women.

52, 34. queue—in a line.

53, 5. chiffonniers—rag-pickers.

53, 33. Accelerees (en correspondence avec les Constantines)—Express omnibuses (connecting with the Constantine line).

54, 3. comme on ne l'est plus—as one is no longer.

54, 6. distribution de prix—prize distribution.

54, 19. "Au clair de la lune!"—"By the light of the moon!" (A French nursery rhyme. Readers of "Trilby" will remember her rendering of this song at her Paris concert.)

54, 20. "Vivent les vacances— ... Gaudio nostro." "Hurrah for the vacations— Come at length; And the punishments Will have ended! The ushers uncivil, With barbarous countenance, Will go to the devil, To our joy."

56, 20. Musee de Marine—Marine Museum.

56, 28. ennui—tedium.

57, 7. en rhetorique et en philosophie—in the rhetoric and Philosophy classes.

57, 9. cerf-dix-cors—ten-branched stags.

57, 13. ventre a terre—at full speed.

57, 17. Toujours au clair de la lune—Always by moonlight.

58, 2. hommes du monde—men of the world (in society).

58, 4. Splendide mendax—Nobly false.

58. 18. salle d'etudes—school-room.

58, 22. en cinquieme—in the fifth class.

59, 16. de service—on duty.

59, 17. la suite au prochain numero—to be continued in our next.

59. 19. Le Tueur de Daims—The Deerslayer.

59, 20. Le Lac Ontario—The Lake Ontario. Le Dernier des Mohicans—The Last of the Mohicans. Les Pionniers—The Pioneers.

59, 31. Bas-de-cuir—Leather-stocking.

60, 10. la flotte de Passy—the Passy crowd. voyous—blackguards.

60, 13. Liberte—egalite—fraternite! ou la mort! Vive la republique—Liberty—equality—fraternity! or death! Hurrah for the republic!

60, 22. le rappel—to arms. la generale—the fire drum.

61, 11. Brigand de la Loire—Brigand of the Loire.

62, 3. en pleine revolution—in the midst of the revolution.

62, 5. piou-piou—the French equivalent of Tommy Atkins. A Private soldier.

62, 17. Sentinelles, prenez-garde a vous—Sentinels, keep on the alert.

62, 22. feu de peloton—platoon fire.

63, 6. "Ce sacre Josselin—il avait tous les talents!"—"That Confounded Josselin—he had all the talents!"

64, 10. lebewohl—farewell.

64, 11. bonsoir, le bon Mozart—good-night, good Mozart.

64, 13. Chateau des Fleurs—Castle of Flowers.

65, 5. Tout vient a qui ne sait pas attendre—Everything comes to him who does not know how to wait.

65, 13. revenons—let us go back.

65, 24. imperiale—outside seat.

65, 26. saucisson de Lyon a l'ail—a Lyons sausage flavored with garlic.

65, 27. petits pains—rolls of bread.

65, 28. biere de Mars—Mars beer.

66, 12. entre les deux ages—between the two ages.

66, 18. Le Gue des Aulnes—Alders Ford.

67, 1. Si vis pacem, para bellum—If you wish peace, prepare for war.

67, 13. tutoyees—addressed as "thee" and "thou," usual only among familiars.

67, 16. bonnets de coton—cotton caps.

68, 19. a l'affut—on the watch.

68, 28. "Cain! Cain! qu'as-tu fait de ton frere?"—"Cain! Cain! what hast thou done with thy brother?"

69, 8. le saut perilleux—the perilous leap.

69, 20. que j' n'ai jamais vu—whom I've never seen.

69, 29. "Dis-moi que'q' chose en anglais."—"Tell me something in English."

69, 32. "Que'q' ca veut dire?"—"What's that mean?"

69, 33. "Il s'agit d'une eglise et d'un cimetiere!"—"It's about a church and a cemetery!"

70, 5. "Demontre-moi un probleme de geometrie"—"Demonstrate to me a problem of geometry."

70, 13. "Demontre-moi que A + B est plus grand que C + D."—"Demonstrate to me that A + B is greater than C + D."

70, 17. "C'est joliment beau, la geometrie!"—"It's mighty fine, this geometry!"

70, 24. brule-gueule—jaw-burner (a short pipe).

70, 31. "Mange-moi ca—ca t' fera du bien!"—"Eat that for me; it'll do you good!"

72, 1. Sais pas—Don't know.

72, 4. Pere Polypheme—Father Polyphemus.

72, 12. ces messieurs—those gentlemen.

72, 22. "He! ma femme!"—"Hey! my wife!"

72, 23. "Voila, voila, mon ami!"—"Here, here, my friend!"

72, 24. "Viens vite panser mon cautere!"—"Come quick and dress my cautery!"

72, 27. cafe—coffee.

72, 32. "Oui, M'sieur Laferte"—"Yes, M'sieur Laferte."

72, 33. "Tire moi une gamme"—"Fire off a scale for me."

73, 3. "Ah! q' ca fait du bien!"—"Ah! that does one good!"

73, 20. "'Colin,' disait Lisette," etc.— "'Colin,' said Lisette, 'I want to cross the water! But I am too poor To pay for the boat!' 'Get in, get in, my beauty! Get in, get in, nevertheless! And off with the wherry That carries my love!'"

75, 18. le droit du seigneur—the right of the lord of the manor.

75, 27. Ames en peine—Souls in pain.

75, 28. Sous la berge hantee, etc. Under the haunted bank The stagnant water lies— Under the sombre woods The dog-fox cries, And the ten-branched stag bells, and the deer come to drink at the Pond of Respite. "Let me go, Were-wolf!" How dark is the pool When falls the night— The owl is scared, And the badger takes flight! And one feels that the dead are awake—that a nameless shadow pursues. "Let me go, Were-wolf!"

76, 29. "Prom'nons-nous dans les bois Pendant que le loup n'y est pas."

"Let us walk in the woods While the wolf is not there."

77, 7. pas aut' chose—nothing else.

77, 10. C'est plus fort que moi—It is stronger than I.

77, 20. "Il est tres mechant!"—"He is very malicious!"

77, 26. "venez donc! il est tres mauvais, le taureau!"—"come now! the bull is very mischievous!"

78, 1. Bon voyage! au plaisir—Pleasant journey! to the pleasure (of seeing you again).

78, 8. "le sang-froid du diable! nom d'un Vellington!"—"the devil's own coolness, by Wellington!"

78, 15. diable—devil.

78, 17. "ces Anglais! je n'en reviens pas! a quatorze ans! hein, ma femme?"—"those English! I can't get over it! At fourteen! eh, my wife?"

80, 10. en famille—at home.

80, 18. charabancs—wagonettes.

80, 32. des chiens anglais—English dogs.

81, 1. charmilles—hedges. pelouses—lawns. quinconces—quincunxes.

81, 13. Figaro qua, Figaro la—Figaro here, Figaro there.

81, 17. charbonniers—charcoal burners.

81, 25. depayse—away from home. desoriente—out of his bearings.

81, 26. perdu—lost.

81, 27. "Ayez pitie d'un pauvre orphelin!"—"Pity a poor orphan!"

82, 19. "Pioche bien ta geometrie, mon bon petit Josselin! c'est la plus belle science au monde, crois-moi!"—"Dig away at your geometry, my good little Josselin! It's the finest science in the world, believe me!"

82, 26. bourru bienfaisant—a gruff but good-natured man.

82, 34. "Enfin! Ca y est! quelle chance!"—"At last! I've got it! what luck!"

83, 1. quoi—what.

83, 2. "Le nord—c'est revenu!"—"The north—it's come back!"

83, 7. une bonne fortune—a love adventure.

83, 10. Les Laiteries—The Dairies. Les Poteries—The Potteries. Les Crucheries—The Pitcheries (also The Stupidities).

83, 26. toi—thou.

83, 27. vous—you.

83, 28. Notre Pere, etc.—See note to page 16, line 21.

83, 80. Ainsi soit-il—So be it.

84, 4. au nom du Pere—in the name of the Father.

84, 31. pavillon des petits—building occupied by the younger boys.

86, 4. cancre—dunce.

86, 5. cretin—idiot.

86, 6. troisieme—third class.

86, 7. Rhetorique (seconde)—Rhetoric (second class).

86, 8. Philosophie (premiere)—Philosophy (first class).

86, 10. Baccalaureat-es-lettres—Bachelor of letters.

87, 27. m'amour (mon amour)—my love.

87, 33. en beaute—at his best.

88, 8. "Le Chant du Depart"—"The Song of Departure."

88, 10. "La victoire en chantant nous ouvre la carriere! La liberte-e gui-i-de nos pas" ...

"Victory shows us our course with song! Liberty guides our steps" ...

88, 25. "Quel dommage ... c'est toujours ca!"—"What a pity that we can't have crumpets! Barty likes them so much. Don't you like crumpets, my dear? Here comes some buttered toast—it's always that!"

88, 29. "Mon Dieu, comme il a bonne mine ... dans la glace"—"Good heavens, how well he looks, the dear Barty!—don't you think so, my love, that you look well? Look at yourself in the glass."

88, 32. "Si nous allions a l'Hippodrome ... aussi les jolies femmes?"—"If we went to the Hippodrome this afternoon, to see the lovely equestrian Madame Richard? Barty adores pretty women, like his uncle! Don't you adore pretty women, you naughty little Barty? and you have never seen Madame Richard. You'll tell me what you think of her; and you, my friend, do you also adore pretty women?"

89, 5. "O oui, allons voir Madame Richard"—"Oh yes! let us go and see Madame Richard."

89, 9. la haute ecole—the high-school (of horsemanship).

89, 14. Cafe des Aveugles—Cafe of the Blind.

90, 4. "Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc, tous?"—"What's the matter with you all?"

90, 5. "Le Pere Brassard est mort!"—"Father Brossard is dead!"

90, 10. "Il est tombe du haut mal"—"He died of the falling sickness."

90, 13. desoeuvrement—idleness.

91, 8. de service as maitre d'etudes—on duty as study-master.

93, 27. "Dites donc, vous autres"—"Say now, you others."

93, 29. panem et circenses—bread and games.

94, 19. "Allez donc ... a La Salle Valentino"—"Go it, godems—this is not a quadrille! We're not at Valentino Hall!"

95, 1. "Messieurs ... est sauf"—"Gentlemen, blood has flown; Britannic honor is safe."

95, 3. "J'ai joliment faim!"—"I'm mighty hungry!"

96, 1. "Que ne puis-je aller," etc. "Why can I not go where the roses go, And not await The heartbreaking regrets which the end of things Keeps for us here?"

96, 8. "Le Manuel du Baccalaureat"—"The Baccalaureat's Manual."

96, 24. un prevot—a fencing-master's assistant.

97, 5. rez-de-chaussee—ground floor.

97, 9. "La pluie de Perles"—"The Shower of Pearls."

97, 12. quart d'heure—quarter of an hour.

97, 17. au petit bonheur—come what may.

97, 26. vieux loup de mer—old sea-wolf.

98, 2. Mon Colonel—My Colonel.

98, 6. endimanche—Sundayfied (dressed up).

99, 11. chefs-d'oeuvre—masterpieces.

99, 24. chanson—song.

99, 27. "C'etait un Capucin," etc. "It was a Capuchin, oh yes, a Capuchin father, Who confessed three girls— Itou, itou, itou, la la la! Who confessed three girls At the bottom of his garden— Oh yes— At the bottom of his garden! He said to the youngest— Itou, itou, itou, la la la! He said to the youngest ... 'You will come back to-morrow.'"

100, 7. un echo du temps passe—an echo of the olden times.

100, 11. esprit Gaulois—old French wit.

100, 20. "Sur votre parole d'honneur, avez-vous chante?"—"On your word of honor, have you sung?"

100, 22. "Non, m'sieur!"—"No, sir!"

100, 32. "Oui, m'sieur!"—"Yes, sir."

101, 5. "Vous etes tous consignes!"—"You are all kept in!"

101, 10. de service—on duty.

101, 19. "Au moins vous avez du coeur ... sale histoire de Capucin!"—"You at least have spirit. Promise me that you will not again sing that dirty story about the Capuchin!"

102, 24. "Stabat mater," etc. "By the cross, sad vigil keeping, Stood the mournful mother weeping, While on it the Saviour hung" ...

102, 30. "Ah! ma chere Mamzelle Marceline!... Et une boussole dans l'estomac!"—"Ah! my dear Miss Marceline, if they were only all like that little Josselin! things would go as if they were on wheels! That English youngster is as innocent as a young calf! He has God in his heart." "And a compass in his stomach!"

104, 29. "Ah! mon cher!... Chantez-moi ca encore une fois!"—"Ah! my dear! what wouldn't I give to see the return of a whaler at Whitby! What a 'marine' that would make! eh? with the high cliff and the nice little church on top, near the old abbey—and the red smoking roofs, and the three stone piers, and the old drawbridge—and all that swarm of watermen with their wives and children—and those fine girls who are waiting for the return of the loved one! By Jove! to think that you have seen all that, you who are not yet sixteen ... what luck! ... say—what does that really mean?—that

'Weel may the keel row!' Sing that to me once again!"

105, 21. "Ah! vous verrez ... vous y etes, en plein!"—"Ah! you will see, during the Easter holidays I will make such a fine picture of all that! with the evening mist that gathers, you know—and the setting sun, and the rising tide, and the moon coming up on the horizon, and the sea-mews and the gulls, and the far-off heaths, and your grandfather's lordly old manor; that's it, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Bonzig—you are right in it."

106, 29. "C'etait dans la nuit brune," etc. "'Twas in the dusky night On the yellowed steeple, The moon, Like a dot on an i!"

108, 17. en flagrant delit—in the very act.

109, 4. la perfide Albion—perfidious Albion.

109, 8. "A bas Dumollard!"—"Down with Dumollard!"

109, 17. l'etude entiere—the whole school.

109, 19. "Est-ce toi?"—"Is it thou?"

109, 23. "Non, m'sieur, ce n'est pas moi!"—"No, sir, it isn't me!"

110, 17. "Parce qu'il aime les Anglais, ma foi—affaire de gout!"—"Because he likes the English, in faith—a matter of taste!"

110, 19. "Ma foi, il n'a pas tort!"—"In faith, he's not wrong!"

110, 24. "Non! jamais en France, Jamais Anglais ne regnera!"

"No! never in France, Never shall Englishman reign!"

111, 5. au piquet pour une heure—in the corner for an hour. a la retenue—kept in.

111, 6. prive de bain—not to go swimming. consigne dimanche prochain—kept in next Sunday.

111, 9. de mortibus nil desperandum—an incorrect version of de mortuis nil nisi bonum: of the dead nothing but good.

111, 27. avec des gens du monde—with people in society.

111, 34. et, ma foi, le sort a favorise M. le Marquis—and, in faith, fortune favored M. le Marquis.

112, 9. vous etes un paltoquet et un rustre—you are a clown and a boor.

112, 18. classe de geographie ancienne—class of ancient geography.

112, 25. "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes!"—"I fear the Greeks even when they bear gifts!"

114, 3. "Le troisieme coup fait feu, vous savez"—"The third blow strikes fire, you know."

114, 23. tisanes—infusions.

114, 31. "C'est moi qui voudrais ... comme il est poli"—"It's myself that would like to have the mumps here. I should delay my convalescence as much as possible!" "How well your uncle knows French, and how polite he is!"

116, 13. Nous avons tous passe par la—We have all been through it.

116, 33. "Te rappelles-tu ... du pere Jaurion?"—"Do you recall Berquin's new coat and his high-hat?" "Do you remember father Jaurion's old angora cat?"

118, 7. "Paille a Dine," etc., is literally: "Straw for Dine—straw for Chine— Straw for Suzette and Martine— Good bed for the Dumaine!"

119, 1. "Pourquoi, m'sieur?" "Parce que ca me plait!" "What for, sir?" "Because it pleases me!"

119, 18. un point, etc.—a period—semi-colon—colon—exclamation —inverted commas—begin a parenthesis.

119, 31. "Te rappelles-tu cette omelette?"—"Do you remember that omelette?"

120, 1. version ecrite—written version.

120, 15. que malheur!—what a misfortune!

120, 19. "Ca pue l'injustice, ici!"—"It stinks of injustice, here!"

120, 25. "Mille francs par an! c'est le Pactole!"—"A thousand francs a year! it is a Pactolus!"

122, 7. "Je t'en prie, mon garcon!"—"I pray you, my boy!"

123, 24. La chasse aux souvenirs d'enfance!—Hunting remembrances of childhood!

124, 3. "Je marcherai les yeux fixes sur mes pensees," etc. "I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts, Seeing nothing outside, without hearing a sound— By myself, unknown, with bowed back and hands crossed: Sad—and the day will for me be as night."

125, 4. beau comme le jour—beautiful as day.

125, 6. la rossignolle—the nightingale (feminine.)

125, 15. "A Saint-Blaize, a la Zuecca" etc. "At St. Blaize, and at Zuecca ... You were, you were very well! At St. Blaize, and at Zuecca ... We were, we were happy there! But to think of it again Will you ever care? Will you think of it again? Will you come once more? At St. Blaize, and at Zuecca ... To live there and to die!"

125, 32. fete de St.-Cloud—festival of St. Cloud.

125, 33. blanchisseuse—laundress.

133, 30. "Roy ne puis, prince ne daigne, Rohan je suis!"—"King I Cannot be, prince I would not be, Rohan I am!"

133, 34. "Rohan ne puis, roi ne daigne. Rien je suis!"—"Rohan I cannot be, king I would not be. Nothing I am!"

135, 10. grandes dames de par le monde—great ladies of the world.

137, 6. "O lachrymarum fons!"—"O font of tears!"

140, 28. Jewess is in French, juive.

141, 10. "Esker voo her jer dwaw lah vee? Ah! kel Bonnure!" Anglo-French for "Est ce que vous que je dois laver. Ah! quel bonheur!"—"Is it that you that I must wash? Ah! What happiness!"

142, 12. Pazienza—Patience.

143, 8. "Ne sulor ultra crepidam!"—"A cobbler should stick to his last!"

145, 1. "La cigale ayant chante," etc. "The grasshopper, having sung The summer through, Found herself destitute When the north wind came."...

146, 20. "Spretae injuria formae"—"The insult to her despised beauty."

146, 31. billets doux—love letters.

152, 8. "La plus forte des forces est un coeur innocent"—"The Strongest of strengths is an innocent heart."

154, 3. "Tiens, tiens!... ecoute!"—"There, there! it's deucedly pretty that—listen!"

154, 8. "Mais, nom d'une pipe—elle est divine, cette musique—la!"—"But, by jingo, it's divine, that music!"

155, 26. bourgeois—the middle class.

155, 34. nouveaux riches—newly rich people.

158, 2. "La mia letizia!"—"My Joy!"

160, 17. "Beau chevalier qui partez pour la guerre," etc. "Brave cavalier, off to the war, What will you do So far from here? Do you not see that the night is dark, And that the world Is only care?"

160, 23. "La Chanson de Barberine"—"The Song of Barberine."

160, 28. cascameche—nightcap tassel. moutardier du pape—pope's mustardman. tromblon-bolivard—broad-brimmed blunderbuss.

160, 29. vieux coquelicot—old poppy.

160, 31. "Voos ayt oon oter!" Anglo-French for "Vous etes un autre!"—"You are another!"

162, 10. C'est toujours comme ca—It's always like that.

163, 17. a bon chat, bon rat—a Roland for an Oliver.

166, 14. poudre insecticide—insect-powder. mort aux punaises—death to the bugs.

166, 22. pensionnat de demoiselles—young ladies' boarding-school.

166, 28. Je connais ca—I know that.

168, 8. eau sucree—sweetened water.

168, 18. Coeur de Lion—Lion Heart. le Pre aux Clercs—Parson's Green.

169, 17. rapins—art students.

170, 14. "Bonjour, Monsieur Bonzig! comment allez-vous?"—"Good-day, Mr. Bonzig! how do you do?"

170, 17. "Pardonnez-moi, monsieur—mais je n'ai pas l'honneur de vous remettre!"—"Pardon me, sir—but I have not the honor to remember your face!"

170, 19. "Je m'appelle Josselin—de chez Brossard!"—"My name is Josselin—from Brossard's!"

170, 20. "Ah! Mon Dieu, mon cher, mon tres-cher!"—"Ah! My God, my dear, my very dear!"

170, 23. "Mais quel bonheur.... Je n'en reviens pas!"—"But what good luck it is to see you again. I think of you so often, and of Whitby! How you have altered! and what a fine-looking fellow you are! who would have recognized you! Lord of Lords—it's a dream! I can't get over it!"

170, 34. "Non, mon cher Josselin"—"No, my dear Josselin."

172, 4. un peintre de marines—a painter of marines.

172, 16. garde champetre—park-keeper.

172, 27. ministere—public office.

172, 31. "l'heure ou le jaune de Naples rentre dans la nature"—"the hour when Naples yellow comes again into nature."

173, 31. bonne friture—good fried fish.

173, 32. fricassee de lapin—rabbit fricasee. pommes sautees—French fried potatoes. soupe aux choux—cabbage soup.

174, 1. cafe chantant—music-hall. bal de barriere—ball held in the outer districts of Paris, usually composed of the rougher element.

174, 3. bonsoir la compagnie—good-night to the company.

174, 26. prix-fixe—fixed price.

175, 6. aile de poulet—chicken's wing. peche au vin—peach preserved in wine.

175, 9. entre la poire et le fromage—between pear and cheese.

175, 15. flaning—from flaner, to lounge.

175, 28. "Ma foi, mon cher!"—"My word, my dear!"

176, 3. ma mangeaille—my victuals.

176, 18. Mont de Piete—pawnshop.

176, 24. moult tristement, a l'anglaise—with much sadness, after the English fashion.

177, 12. un jour de separation, vous comprenez—a day of separation, you understand.

177, 14. a la vinaigrette—with vinegar sauce.

177, 16. nous en ferons l'experience—we will try it.

177, 19. maillot—bathing-suit. peignoir—wrapper.

177, 21. "Oh! la mer! ... chez Babet!"—"Oh! the sea, the sea! At last I am going to take my header into it—and not later than to-morrow evening.... Till to-morrow, my dear comrade—six o'clock—at Babet's!"

177, 27. piquant sa tete—taking his header.

178, 1. sergent de ville—policeman.

178, 4. "un jour de separation ... nagerons de conserve"—"a day Of separation! but come also, Josselin—we will take our headers together, and swim in each other's company."

178, 13. "en signe de mon deuil"—"as a token of my mourning."

178, 23. plage—beach.

178, 30. dame de comptoir—the lady at the counter.

178, 33. demi-tasse—small cup of coffee. petit-verre—small glass of brandy.

180, 13. avec tant d'esprit—so wittily.

180, 14. rancune—grudge.

181, 14. bon raconteur—good story-teller.

181, 16. "La plus belle fille ... ce qu'elle a!"—"The fairest girl in the world can give only what she has!"

182, 5. comme tout un chacun sait—as each and every one knows.

182, 24. Tout ca, c'est de l'histoire ancienne—that's all ancient history.

183, 8. "tres bel homme ... que joli garcon hein?"—"fine man, Bob; more of the fine man than the handsome fellow, eh?"

183, 12. Mes compliments—My compliments.

183, 19. "Ca y est, alors! ... a ton bonheur!"—"So it's settled, then! I congratulate you beforehand, and I keep my tears for when you have gone. Let us go and dine at Babet's: I long to drink to your welfare!"

184, 1. atelier—art studio.

184, 6. le Beau Josselin—the handsome Josselin.

184, 33. serrement de coeur—heart burning.

185, 22. Marche aux oeufs—Egg Market.

186, 4. "Malines" or "Louvain"—Belgian beers.

186, 25. "Oui; un nomme Valteres"—"Yes; one called Valteres" (French pronunciation of Walters).

186, 28. "Parbleu, ce bon Valteres—je l'connais bien!"—"Zounds, good old Walters—I know him well!"

188, 26. primo tenore—first tenor.

188, 29. Guides—a Belgian cavalry regiment.

188, 32. Cercle Artistique—Art Club.

191, 1. "O celeste haine," etc. "O celestial hate, How canst thou be appeased? O human suffering, Who can cure thee? My pain is so heavy I wish it would kill me— Such is my desire.

"Heart-broken by thought, Weary of compassion, To hear no more, Nor see, nor feel, I am ready to give My parting breath— And this is my desire.

"To know nothing more, Nor remember myself— Never again to rise, Nor go to sleep— No longer to be, But to have done— That is my desire!"

191, 23. Fleur de Ble—Corn-flower.

192, 31. "Vous allez a Blankenberghe, mossie?"—"You go to Blankenberghe, sah?"

193, 1. "Je souis bienn content—nous ferons route ensiemble!" (je suis bien content—nous ferons route ensemble)—"I am fery glad—ve will make ze journey togezzar!"

193, 5. ragazza—girl.

193, 7. "un' prodige, mossie—un' fenomeno!"—"a prodigy, sah—a phenomenon!"

193, 24. Robert, toi que j'aime—Robert, thou whom I love.

193, 29. "Ma vous aussi, vous etes mousicien—je vois ca par la Votre figoure!" (Mais vous aussi vous etes musicien—je vois ca par votre figure!)—"But you also, you are a moosician—I see zat by your face!"

194, 4. elle et moi—she and I.

194, 5. bon marche—cheap.

194, 34. en famille—at home.

195, 7. "Je vais vous canter couelque cose (Je vais vous chanter quelque-chose)—una piccola cosa da niente!—vous comprenez l'Italien?"—"I vill sing to you somezing—a leetle zing of nozzing!—you understand ze Italian?"

195, 12. je les adore—I adore them.

195, 16. "Il vero amore"—"True Love."

195, 17. "E la mio amor e andato a soggiornare A Lucca bella—e diventar signore...."

"And my love has gone to dwell In beautiful Lucca—and become a gentleman...."

195, 29. "O mon Fernand!"—"O my Fernand!"

196, 13. "Et vous ne cantez pas ... comme je pourrai." "And you do not sing at all, at all?" "Oh yes, sometimes!" "Sing somezing—I vill accompany you on ze guitar!—do not be afraid—ve vill not be hard on you, she and I—" "Oh—I'll do my best to accompany myself."

196, 21. "Fleur des Alpes"—"Flower of the Alps."

199, 23. medaille de sauvetage—medal for saving life.

200, 2. Je leur veux du bien—I wish them well.

200, 17. Largo al factotum—Make way for the factotum.

201, 24. bis! ter!—a second time! a third time!

201, 26. "Het Roosje uit de Dorne"—"The Rose without the Thorn."

202, 15. sans tambour ni trompette—without drum or trumpet (French leave).

202, 29. Hotel de Ville—Town-hall.

203, 4. "Una sera d' amore"—"An Evening of Love."

203, 16. "Guarda che bianca luna"—"Behold the silver moon."

204, 15. boute-en-train—life and soul.

205, 10. "A vous, monsieur de la garde ... tirer les premiers!" "Your turn, gentleman of the guard." "The gentlemen of the guard should always fire the first!"

205, 20. "Je ne tire plus ... main malheureuse un jour!"—"I will fire no more—I am too much afraid that some day my hand may be unfortunate!"

205, 33. "Le cachet ... je lui avais demande!"—"Mr. Josselin's seal, which I had asked him for!"

206, 4. Salle d'Armes—Fencing-school.

206, 10. des enfantillages—child's play.

206, 15. "Je vous en prie, monsieur de la garde!"—"I pray you, gentleman of the guard!"

206, 17. "Cette fois, alors, nous allons tirer ensemble!"—"This time, then, we will draw together!"

206, 23. maitre d'armes—fencing-master.

206, 29. "Vous etes impayable ... pour la vie"—"You are extraordinary, you know, my dear fellow; you have every talent, and a million in your throat into the bargain! If ever I can do anything for you, you know, always count upon me."

208, 1. "Et plus jamais ... quand vous m'ecrirez!"—"And no more empty envelopes when you write to me!"

208, 10. la peau de chagrin—the shagreen skin. (The hero of this story, by Balzac, is given a piece of shagreen, on the condition that all his wishes will be gratified, but that every wish will cause the leather to shrink, and that when it disappears his life will come to an end. Chagrin also means sorrow, so that Barty's retina was indeed "a skin of sorrow," continually shrinking.)

208, 29. "Les miseres du jour font le bonheur du lendemain!"—"The misery of to-day is the happiness of to-morrow!"

210, 23. dune—a low sand-hill. (They are to be found all along the Belgian coast.)

214, 22. par—by.

214. 32. dit-on—they say.

216, 22. bien d'accord—of the same mind.

217, 1. nee—by birth.

217, 29. moi qui vous parle—I who speak to you.

219, 3. Kermesse—fair.

219, 6. estaminet—a drinking and smoking resort.

219, 10. a la Teniers—after the manner of Teniers, the painter.

219, 34. in secula seculorum!—for ages of ages!

220, 3. Rue des Ursulines Blanches—Street of the White Ursulines.

220, 5. des Soeurs Redemptoristines—Sisters of the Redemption.

220, 11. Frau—Mrs. (This is German; the Flemish is Juffrow.)

220, 26. "La Cigogne"—"The Stork Inn."

221, 9. salade aux fines herbes—salad made of a mixture of herbs.

222, 28. a fleur de tete—on a level with their heads.

223, 6. savez vous?—do you know?

223, 26. chaussees—roads.

224, 26. Les Maitres Sonneurs—The Master Ringers. La Mare au Diable—The Devil's Pool.

225, 21. seminaire—clerical seminary.

225, 29. "Mio caro Paolo di Kocco!"—"My dear Paul de Kock!"

225, 32. "Un malheureux" etc. "An unfortunate dressed in black, Who resembled me like a brother." (Du Maurier himself.)

228, 14. mein armer—my poor.

228, 17. Lieber—dear.

229, 5. Bel Mazetto—Beautiful Mazetto.

229, 7. "Ich bin ein lustiger Student, mein Pardy"—"I am a jolly Student, my Barty."

229, 15. Katzenjammer—sore head.

229, 18. Liebe—love.

230, 2. tout le monde—everybody.

231, 18. autrefois—the times of yore.

231, 21. "Oh, non, mon ami"—"Oh, no, my friend."

231, 29. "Petit bonhomme vit encore"—"Good little fellow still alive."

232, 1."He quoi! pour des peccadilles," etc. "Eh, what! for peccadilloes To scold those little loves? Women are so pretty, And one does not love forever! Good fellow They call me ... My gayety is my treasure! And the good fellow is still alive— And the good fellow is still alive!"

233, 10. Soupe-au-lait—Milk porridge.

234, 2. muscae volitantes—(literally) hovering flies.

242, 1. "Mettez-vous au regime des viandes saignantes!"—"Put Yourself on a diet of rare meat!"

242, 4. "Mettez-vous au lait!"—"Take to milk!"

242, 9. desoeuvrement—idleness.

242, 16. "Amour, Amour," etc. "Love, love, when you hold us, Well may we say: 'Prudence, good-bye!'"

244, 1. "Il s'est conduit en homme de coeur!"—"He has behaved like a man of spirit!"

244, 3. "Il s'est conduit en bon gentilhomme"—"He has behaved like a thorough gentleman!"

247, 9. Les Noces de Jeannette—Jeannette's Wedding.

247, 13. "Cours, mon aiguille ... de notre peine!" "Run, my needle, through the wool! Do not break off in my hand; For to-morrow with good kisses Jean will pay us for our trouble!"

249, 3. "Helas! mon jeune ami!"—"Alas! my young friend!"

252, 1. Sursum cor! sursum corda!—Lift up your heart! Lift up Your hearts!

252, 11. coupe-choux—cabbage-cutter.

252, 13. "Ca ne vous regarde pas, ... ou je vous ..."—"It's none of your business, you know! take yourselves off at once, or I'll ..."

252, 19. "Non—c'est moi qui regarde, savez-vous!"—"No—it is I who am looking, you know!"

252, 20. "Qu'est-ce que vous regardez?... Vous ne voulez pas vous en aller?" "What are you looking at?" "I am looking at the moon and the stars. I am looking at the comet!" "Will you take yourself off at once?" "Some other time!" "Take yourself off, I tell you!" "The day after to-morrow!" "You ... will ... not ... take ... yourself ... off?"

252, 32. "Non, sacre petit ... restez ou vous etes!" "No, you confounded little devil's gravel-pusher!" "All right, stay where you are!"

254, 16. "... du sommeil au songe— Du songe a la mort."

"... from sleep to dream— From dream to death."

254, 21. "Il est dix heures ... dans votre chambre?"—"It's ten o'clock, you know? Will you have your coffee in your room?"