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This subject of Latin that has been dinned into our ears for some time past recalls to my mind a story a story of my youth. I was finishing my studies with a teacher, in a big central town, at the Institution Robineau, celebrated through the entire province for the special attention paid there to the study of Latin.
Madame Robineau was silently disposing of all the biscuits and punch that came in her way. Monsieur Robineau, with his hat a little pushed back and his thumb in the arm-hole of his waistcoat, was telling a long story to which nobody listened; while Dalrymple, sitting on the other side of the bride, was gallantly doing the duties of entertainer.
I must be able to continue my bachelor life with her, and as long as possible. And then there's another thing that I can't tell papa. His name is Chamblard it isn't his fault; only, in consequence, I too am named Chamblard, and it's not very agreeable, with a name like that, to try to get on in society. And a pretty, a very pretty, woman is the best passport. There, look at Robineau.
Look here, listen to me." Now, it came to pass that the pupils of the Institution Robineau carried off, at the end of the year, all the prizes for composition, translation, and Latin conversation.
With regard to drinking my punch, I have drunk it " and here he again stared down into the bottom of his glass, which was again empty "and with regard to holding my tongue, that is my business, and and...." "Monsieur Robineau," said Dalrymple, "allow me to offer you some more punch." "Not another drop, Jacques," said Madame, sternly. "You have had too much already."
For the past ten years, the Robineau Institute beat the imperial lycee of the town at every competitive examination, and all the colleges of the subprefecture, and these constant successes were due, they said, to an usher, a simple usher, M. Piquedent, or rather Pere Piquedent.
"Two honor prizes at the general examinations in competition with all the lycees and colleges of France." For ten years the Institution Robineau triumphed in the same fashion.
It had evidently been ordered during one of the pauses in the dance, that it might be ready to the moment a little attention which called forth exclamations of pleasure from both Madame Roquet and Monsieur Robineau, and touched with something like a gleam of satisfaction even the grim visage of Monsieur Robineau's wife.
At an unoccupied loophole Father Robineau watched his chapel burning, with its meagre enrichments, added year by year. But this was nothing, when his eye dropped to the two or three figures lying face downward on the road. He turned himself toward the wailing of a widow and a mother. The miller's wife was coming downstairs with a candle, leaving her children huddled in darkness at the top.
Look here, listen to me." Now, it came to pass that the pupils of the Institution Robineau carried off, at the end of the year, all the prizes for composition, translation, and Latin conversation.
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