There was only one étude now; only half the boys came back, and the pavillon des petits was shut up, study, class-rooms, dormitories, and all--except that two masters slept there still. [Illustration: MÉROVÉE RINGS THE BELL] Eight or ten small boys were put in a small school-room in the same house as ours, and had a small dormitory to themselves, with M. Bonzig to superintend them. I made up my mind that I would no longer be a _cancre_ and a _crétin_, but work hard and do my little best, so that I might keep up with Barty and pass into the _troisième_ with him, and then into _Rhétorique_ (seconde), and then into _Philosophie_ (première)--that we might do our humanities and take our degree together--our "_Bachot_," which is short for _Baccalauréat-ès-lettres_. Most Especially did I love Monsieur Durosier's class of French Literature--for which Mérovée always rang the bell himself. My mother and sister were still at Ste.-Adresse, Hâvre, with my father; so I spent my first Sunday that term at the Archibald Rohans', in the Rue du Bac. I had often seen them at Brossard's, when they came to see Barty, but had never been at their house before. They were very charming people. Lord Archibald was dressing when we got there that Sunday morning, and we sat with him while he shaved--in an immense dressing-room where there were half a dozen towel-horses with about thirty pairs of newly ironed trousers on them instead of towels, and quite thirty pairs of shiny boots on trees were ranged along the wall. James, an impeccable English valet, waited on "his lordship," and never spoke unless spoken to. "Hullo, Barty! Who's your friend?" "Bob Maurice, Uncle Archie." And Uncle Archie shook hands with me most cordially. "And how's the north pole this morning?" "Nicely, thanks, Uncle Archie." Lord Archibald was a very tall and handsome man, about fifty--very droll and full of anecdote; he had stories to tell about everything in the room. For instance, how Major Welsh of the 10th Hussars had given him that pair of Wellingtons, which fitted him better than any boots Hoby ever made him to measure; they were too tight for poor Welsh, who was a head shorter than himself. How Kerlewis made him that frock-coat fifteen years ago, and it wasn't threadbare yet, and fitted him as well as ever--for he hadn't changed his weight for thirty years, etc. How that pair of braces had been made by "my lady" out of a pair of garters she wore on the day they were married. And then he told us how to keep trousers from bagging at the knees, and how cloth coats should be ironed, and how often--and how to fold an umbrella. It suddenly occurs to me that perhaps these little anecdotes may not be so amusing to the general reader as they were to me when he told them, so I won't tell any more. Indeed, I have often noticed that things look sometimes rather dull in print that were so surprisingly witty when said in spontaneous talk a great many years ago!