MARCEL PROUSTof your class, who can write French more clearly and correctly?";
only to receive the cutting and punning reply: "Sir, none of my
pupils is taught to write French like a Manual." M. Cucheval,
however, that 'ideal of a good teacher', did not at first return his
pupil's regard. Before the end of the October term 'a dozen silly
fools were writing decadent prose, M. Cucheval said 1'd divided
the class into factions, and was a poisoner of young minds, and
some people even thought I was a poseur!' Marcel's essays were
greeted by storms of booing and applause-'if it hadn't been for
Gaucher they'd have massacred me'. After a few months M.
Cucheval began to come round; but just before the final examina-
tion he was heard to remark: "He'll get through, because he's only
a joker, but it'll be his fault if another fifteen of them are
ploughed."
In the summer of 1888, alas, Maxime Gaucher fell ill, and died
on 24 July. His place was taken till the end of term by M. Dupre,
who was 'affectionate, kind, and full of delicacy, but a bore'. He
knew the works of Leconte de Lisle, it was true, but 'what's the
use of hearing modem writers talked about by someone who likes
them with far too many reservations? It makes you tap your feet
and grind your teeth.' The other master in rMtorique, the cold,
thin and ceremonious M. Dauphine, likewise admired Leconte de
Lisle, but thought him 'cuwious' and was puzzled by 'his taste for
the stwange and exotic'. M. Dauphine lisped, and when his pupils
misbehaved would say "Monsieur Halevy and Monsieur Bizet,
I must ask you to withdwaw." These two, the son and nephew
of Bizet's widow, were particularly unruly, perhaps because
the innocent and blue-spectacled M. Martin, the school
superintendent, had told them: "With famous names like yours,
you know, you'll never be expelled."
There is a photograph of the class of M. Cucheval, a huge
pyramid of fifty boys, most of whom are older than Marcel. He is
an alert, asthenic child of sixteen, with narrow chest, sloping
shoulders, and collar turned up to keep out the draught. M.
Cucheval has the heavy dignity of a St Bernard dog with a beard.
Marcel is motionless, caught half-way between the little prince of
Illiers and the dandy of the 1890s; but soon the pyramid will col-
lapse, M. Cucheval will bark, the boy in the front row will put on
his bowler hat, and time will begin to pass. In the July examina-
tions of 1888 Marcel won first prize for French composition and