Finally the gentlemen of the party went down to the river for a swim--and old Laferté would sit on the bank and smoke his brûle-gueule, and throw carefully selected stones for Barty to dive after--and feel he'd scored off Barty when the proper stone wasn't found, and roar in his triumph. After which he would go and pick the finest peach he could find, and peel it with his pocket-knife very neatly, and when Barty was dressed, present it to him with a kindly look in both eyes at once. "Mange-moi ça--ça t' fera du bien!" Then, suddenly: "Pourquoi q' tu n'aimes pas la chasse? t'as pas peur, j'espère!" (Why don't you like shooting? you're not afraid, I hope!) [Illustration: LE PÈRE POLYPHÈME] "'Sais pas,'" said Josselin; "don't like killing things, I suppose.'" So Barty became quite indispensable to the happiness and comfort of Père Polyphème, as he called him, as well as of his amiable family. On the 1st of September there was a grand breakfast in honor of the partridges (not in the kitchen this time), and many guests were invited; and Barty had to sing and talk and play the fool all through breakfast; and got very tipsy, and had to be put to bed for the rest of the day. It was no fault of his, and Madame Lafertó declared that "ces messieurs" ought to be ashamed of themselves, and watched over Barty like a mother. He has often declared he was never quite the same after that debauch--and couldn't feel the north for a month. The house was soon full of guests, and Barty and I slept in M. Laferté's bedroom--his wife in a room adjoining. Every morning old Polyphemus would wake us up by roaring out: "Hé! ma femme!" "Voilà, voilà, mon ami!" from the next room. "Viens vite panser mon cautère!" And in came Madame L. in her dressing-gown, and dressed a blister he wore on his big arm. Then: "Café!" And coffee came, and he drank it in bed. Then: "Pipe!" And his pipe was brought and filled, and he lit it. Then: "Josselin!" "Oui, M'sieur Laferté." "Tire moi une gamme." "Dorémifasollasido--Dosilasolfamirédo!" sang Josselin, up and down, in beautiful tune, with his fresh bird-like soprano. "Ah! q' ça fait du bien!" says M. L.; then a pause, and puffs of smoke and grunts and sighs of satisfaction. "Josselin?" "Oui, M'sieur Laferté!" "'La brune Thérèse!'" And Josselin would sing about the dark-haired Thérèsa--three verses. "Tu as changé la fin du second couplet--tu as dit '_des comtesses_' au lieu de dire '_des duchesses_'--recommence!" (You changed the end of the second verse--you said "countesses" instead of "duchesses"--begin again.) And Barty would re-sing it, as desired, and bring in the duchesses. "Maintenant, 'Colin, disait Lisette!'" And Barty would sing that charming little song, most charmingly: