I have met in my time more intellectual people, perhaps, than the Archibald Rohans--but never people more amiable, or with kinder, simpler manners, or who made one feel more quickly and thoroughly at home--and the more I got to know them, the more I grew to like them; and their fondness for each other and Daphne, and for Barty too, was quite touching; as was his for them. So the winter sped happily till February, when a sad thing happened. I had spent Sunday with my mother and sister, who now lived on the ground-floor of 108 Champs Élysées. I slept there that Sunday night, and walked back to school next morning. To my surprise, as I got to a large field through which a diagonal footpath led to Père Jaurion's loge, I saw five or six boys sitting on the terrace parapet with their legs dangling outside. They should have been in class, by rights. They watched me cross the field, but made no sign. "What on earth _can_ be the matter?" thought I. The cordon was pulled, and I came on a group of boys all stiff and silent. "Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc, tous?" I asked. "Le Père Brossard est mort!" said De Villars. Poor M. Brossard had died of apoplexy on the previous afternoon. He had run to catch the Passy omnibus directly after lunch, and had fallen down in a fit and died immediately. "Il est tombé du haut mal"--as they expressed it. His son Mérovée and his daughter Madame Germain were distracted. The whole of that day was spent by the boys in a strange, unnatural state of _désoeuvrement_ and suppressed excitement for which no outlet was possible. The meals, especially, were all but unbearable. One was ashamed of having an appetite, and yet one had--almost keener than usual, if I may judge by myself--and for some undiscovered reason the food was better than on other Mondays! Next morning we all went up in sorrowful procession to kiss our poor dear head-master's cold forehead as he lay dead in his bed, with sprigs of boxwood on his pillow, and above his head a jar of holy water with which we sprinkled him. He looked very serene and majestic, but it was a harrowing ceremony. Mérovée stood by with swollen eyes and deathly pale--incarnate grief. On Wednesday afternoon M. Brossard was buried in the Cimetière de Passy, a tremendous crowd following the hearse; the boys and masters just behind Mérovée and M. Germain, the chief male mourners. The women walked in another separate procession behind. Béranger and Alphonse Karr were present among the notabilities, and speeches were made over his open grave, for he was a very distinguished man. And, tragical to relate, that evening in the study Barty and I fell out, and it led to a stand-up fight next day. There was no preparation that evening; he and I sat side by side reading out of a book by Châteaubriand--either _Atala_, or _René_ or _Les Natchez_, I forget which. I have never seen either since.