The fish were too
tame and easily caught, and their beauty of too civilized an order; the
rare, flat, vicious dytiscus "took the cake."
Sometimes, even, we would walk through Boulogne to St. Cloud, to see the
new railway and the trains--an inexhaustible subject of wonder and
delight--and eat ices at the "Tete Noire" (a hotel which had been the
scene of a terrible murder, that led to a cause celebre); and we would
come back through the scented night, while the glowworms were shining in
the grass, and the distant frogs were croaking in the Mare d'Auteuil.
Now and then a startled roebuck would gallop in short bounds across
the path, from thicket to thicket, and Medor would go mad again and wake
the echoes of the new Paris fortification, which were still in the
course of construction.
[Illustration]
He had not the gift of catching roebucks!
If my father were of the party, he would yodel Tyrolese melodies, and
sing lovely songs of Boieldieu, Herold, and Gretry; or "Drink to me only
with thine eyes," or else the "Bay of Dublin" for Madame Seraskier, who
had the nostalgia of her beloved country whenever her beloved
husband was away.
Or else we would break out into a jolly chorus and march to the tune--
_"Marie, trempe ton pain,
Marie, trempe ton pain,
Marie, trempe ton pain dans la soupe;
Marie, trempe ton pain,
Marie, trempe ton pain,
Marie, trempe ton pain dans le vin!"_
Or else--
_"La--soupe aux choux--se fait dans la marmite;
Dans--la marmite--se fait la soupe aux choux.
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