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These sorrowful promenades with his melancholy companion would commonly end a tiresome day at Batifol's school. Amedee was now in the "seventh," and knew already that the phrase, "the will of God," could not be turned into Latin by 'bonitas divina', and that the word 'cornu' was not declinable.
Amedee was timid, too, like his father, and while the child, frightened by the resemblance of the sphere to M. Batifol's bald head, was already trembling, M. Violette, much agitated, was trying to think of something to say, consequently, he said nothing of any account.
Everything in M. Batifol's school the grotesque and miserable teachers, the ferocious and cynical pupils, the dingy, dusty, and ink-stained rooms saddened and displeased Amedee.
She continues to sing in a low voice: and at the moment when Amedee stands speechless with admiration before her, as she is scolding in a terrible tone and playing dreadful chords, to and behold! here come the children, both with pink moustaches, and licking their lips voluptuously. Ah! these were happy hours to Amedee. They consoled him for the interminable days at M. Batifol's.
She continues to sing in a low voice: and at the moment when Amedee stands speechless with admiration before her, as she is scolding in a terrible tone and playing dreadful chords, to and behold! here come the children, both with pink moustaches, and licking their lips voluptuously. Ah! these were happy hours to Amedee. They consoled him for the interminable days at M. Batifol's.
Everything in M. Batifol's school the grotesque and miserable teachers, the ferocious and cynical pupils, the dingy, dusty, and ink-stained rooms saddened and displeased Amedee.
These sorrowful promenades with his melancholy companion would commonly end a tiresome day at Batifol's school. Amedee was now in the "seventh," and knew already that the phrase, "the will of God," could not be turned into Latin by 'bonitas divina', and that the word 'cornu' was not declinable.
This was the reason why, one fine spring day, M. Violette was ushered into M. Batifol's office, who, the servant said, would be there directly. M. Batifol's office was hideous.
There was even upon M. Batifol's cranium an eruption of little red pimples, grouped almost exactly like an archipelago in the Pacific Ocean. "Whom have I the honor ?" asked the schoolmaster, in an unctuous voice, an excellent voice for proclaiming names at the distribution of prizes. M. Violette was not a brave man.
It was then that Amedee made the acquaintance of one of his comrades he no longer went to M. Batifol's boarding-school, but was completing his studies at the Lycee Henri IV named Maurice Roger. They soon formed an affectionate intimacy, one of those eighteen-year-old friendships which are perhaps the sweetest and most substantial in the world.
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