He translated it thus: "Vogue la carène, Vogue la carène Qui me ramène Mon bien aimé!" "Ah! vous verrez," says Bonzig--"vous verrez, aux prochaines vacances de Pâques--je ferai un si joli tableau de tout ça! avec la brume du soir qui tombe, vous savez--et le soleil qui disparait--et la marée qui monte et la lune qui se lève à l'horizon! et les mouettes et les goëlands--et les bruyères lointaines--et le vieux manoir seigneurial de votre grand-père ... c'est bien ça, n'est-ce pas?" "Oui, oui, M'sieur Bonzig--vous y êtes, en plein!" And the good usher in his excitement would light himself a cigarette of caporal, and inhale the smoke as if it were a sea-breeze, and exhale it like a regular sou'-wester! and sing: "Ouïle--mé--sekile rô, Tat brinn my laddé ôme!" Barty also brought back with him the complete poetical works of Byron and Thomas Moore, the gift of his noble grandfather, who adored these two bards to the exclusion of all other bards that ever wrote in English. And during that year we both got to know them, possibly as well as Lord Whitby himself. Especially "Don Juan," in which we grew to be as word-perfect as in _Polyeucte_, _Le Misanthrope_, _Athalie_, _Philoctète_, _Le Lutrin_, the first six books of the Æneid and the Iliad, the _Ars Poetica_, and the _Art Poétique_ (Boileau). Every line of these has gone out of my head--long ago, alas! But I could still stand a pretty severe examination in the now all-but-forgotten English epic--from Dan to Beersheba--I mean from "I want a hero" to "The phantom of her frolic grace, Fitz-Fulke!" Barty, however, remembered everything--what he ought to, and what he ought not! He had the most astounding memory: wax to receive and marble to retain; also a wonderful facility for writing verse, mostly comic, both in English and French. Greek and Latin verse were not taught us at Brossard's, for good French reasons, into which I will not enter now. We also grew very fond of Lamartine and Victor Hugo, quite openly--and of De Musset under the rose. "C'était dans la nuit brune Sur le clocher jauni, La lune, Comme un point sur son i!" (not for the young person). [Illustration: "WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW"] I have a vague but pleasant impression of that year. Its weathers, its changing seasons, its severe frosts, with Sunday skatings on the dangerous canals, St.-Ouen and De l'Ourcq; its genial spring, all convolvulus and gobéas, and early almond blossom and later horse-chestnut spikes, and more lime and syringa than ever; its warm soft summer and the ever-delightful school of notation by the Isle of Swans. This particular temptation led us into trouble. We would rise before dawn, Barty and Jolivet and I, and let ourselves over the wall and run the two miles, and get a heavenly swim and a promise of silence for a franc apiece; and run back again and jump into bed a few minutes before the five-o'clock bell rang the réveillé.