M. Bergeret, who loved acquiring information and looked indulgently on new ideas, begged M. Roux to recite his last poem, _The Metamorphosis of the Nymph_, which had not yet been given to the world. “One moment,” said M. Compagnon. “I will walk on your left, Monsieur Roux, so that I may have my best ear towards you.” It was settled that M. Roux should recite his poem while he walked with the two professors as far as the dean’s house on the Tournelles, for on such a gentle slope as that he would not lose his breath. Then M. Roux began to declaim _The Metamorphosis of the Nymph_ in a slow, drawling, sing-song voice. In lines punctuated here and there by the rumbling of cart-wheels he recited: The snow-white nymph, Who glides with rounded hips Along the winding shore, And the isle where willows grey Girdle her waist with the belt of Eve, In leafage of oval shape, And palely disappears.[2] [2] La nymphe blanche Qui coule à pleines hanches, Le long du rivage arrondi Et de l’île où les saules grisâtres Mettent à ses flancs la ceinture d’Ève, En feuillages ovales, Et qui fuit pâle. Then he painted a shifting kaleidoscope of: Green banks shelving down, With the hostel of the town And the frying of gudgeons within.[3] [3] De vertes berges, Avec l’auberge Et les fritures de goujons. Restless, unquiet, the nymph takes to flight. She draws near the town and there the metamorphosis takes place. Fretted are her hips by the rough stone of the quay, Her breast is a thicket of rugged hair And black with the coal, which mingled with sweat, Has turned the nymph to a stevedore wet. And below is the dock For the coke.[4] [4] La pierre du quai dur lui rabote les hanches, Sa poitrine est hérissée d’un poil rude, Et noire de charbons, que délaye la sueur, La nymphe est devenue un débardeur. Et là-bas est le dock Pour le coke. Next the poet sang of the river flowing through the city: And the river, from henceforth municipal and historic, And worthy of archives, of annals and records, Worthy of glory. Deriving something solemn and even stern From the grey stone walls, Flows under the heavy shadow of the basilica Where linger still the shades of Eudes, of Adalberts, In the golden fringes of the past, Bishops who bless not the nameless dead, The nameless dead, No longer bodies, but leather bottèls, Who will to go hence, Along the isles in the form of boats With, for masts, but the chimney-tops. For the drownèd will out beyond. But pause you on the erudite parapets Where, in boxes, lies many a fable strange, And the red-edged conjuring book whereon the plane-tree Sheds its leaves, Perchance there you’ll discover potent words: “For you’re no stranger to the value of runes Nor to the true power of signs traced on the sheets.”[5]