cian.

Monsieur Bonzig--or "le Grand Bonzig," as he was called behind his
back--sat at his table on the estrade, correcting the exercises of
the eighth class (huitieme), which he coached in Latin and French.
It was the lowest class in the school; yet one learnt much in it
that was of consequence; not, indeed, that Balbus built a wall--as
I'm told we learn over here (a small matter to make such a fuss
about, after so many years)--but that the Lord made heaven and earth
in six days, and rested on the seventh.

He (Monsieur Bonzig) seemed hot and weary, as well he might, and
sighed, and looked up every now and then to mop his brow and think.
And as he gazed into the green and azure depths beyond the north
window, his dark brown eyes quivered and vibrated from side to side
through his spectacles with a queer quick tremolo, such as I have
never seen in any eyes but his.

[Illustration: INSTITUTION F. BROSSARD]

About five-and-twenty boys sat at their desks; boys of all ages between
seven and fourteen--many with closely cropped hair, "a la malcontent,"
like nice little innocent convicts; and nearly all in blouses, mostly
blue; some with their garments loosely flowing; others confined at the
waist by a tricolored ceinture de gymnastique, so deep and stiff it
almost amounted to stays.

As for the boys themselves, some were energetic and
industrious--some listless and lazy and lolling, and quite languid
with the heat--some fidgety and restless, on the lookout for
excitement of any kind: a cab or carriage raising the dust on its
way to the Bois--a water-cart laying it (there were no hydrants
then); a courier bearing royal despatches, or a mounted orderly; the
Passy omnibus, to or fro every ten or twelve minutes; the marchand
de coco with his bell; a regiment of the line with its band; a
chorus of peripatetic Orpheonistes--a swallow, a butterfly, a
humblebee; a far-off balloon, oh, joy!--any sight or sound to
relieve the tedium of those two mortal school-hours that dragged
their weary lengths from half past one till half past three--every
day but Sunday and Thursday.

(Even now I find the early afternoon a little trying to wear through
without a nap, say from two to four.)

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