At 3.30 there would come a half-hour's interval of play, and then the class of French literature from four till dinner-time at six--a class that was more than endurable on account of the liveliness and charm of Monsieur Durosier, who journeyed all the way from the Collége de France every Saturday afternoon in June and July to tell us boys of the quatrième all about Villon and Ronsard, and Marot and Charles d'Orléans (_exceptis excipiendis_, of course), and other pleasant people who didn't deal in Greek or Latin or mathematics, and knew better than to trouble themselves overmuch about formal French grammar and niggling French prosody. Besides, everything was pleasant on a Saturday afternoon on account of the nearness of the day of days-- "And that's the day that comes between The Saturday and Monday".... in France. I had just finished translating my twenty lines of Virgil-- "Infandum, regina, jubes renovare," etc. Oh, crimini, but it _was_ hot! and how I disliked the pious Æneas! I couldn't have hated him worse if I'd been poor Dido's favorite younger brother (not mentioned by Publius Vergilius Maro, if I remember). Palaiseau, who sat next to me, had a cold in his head, and kept sniffing in a manner that got on my nerves. "Mouche-toi donc, animal!" I whispered; "tu me dégoûtes, à la fin!" Palaiseau always sniffed, whether he had a cold or not. "Taisez-vous, Maurice--ou je vous donne cent vers à copier!" said M. Bonzig, and his eyes quiveringly glittered through his glasses as he fixed me. Palaiseau, in his brief triumph, sniffed louder. "Palaiseau," said Monsieur Bonzig, "si vous vous serviez de votre mouchoir--hein? Je crois que cela ne gênerait personne!" (If you were to use your pocket-handkerchief--eh? I don't think it would inconvenience anybody!) At this there was a general titter all round, which was immediately suppressed, as in a court of law; and Palaiseau reluctantly and noisily did as he was told. In front of me that dishonest little sneak Rapaud, with a tall parapet of books before him to serve as a screen, one hand shading his eyes, and an inkless pen in the other, was scratching his copy-book with noisy earnestness, as if time were too short for all he had to write about the pious Æneas's recitative, while he surreptitiously read the _Comte de Monte Cristo_, which lay open in his lap--just at the part where the body, sewn up in a sack, was going to be hurled into the Mediterranean. I knew the page well. There was a splash of red ink on it.