native Frenchman with a history of evasion. As a young man in the days of Napoleon, he had avoided army duty by the civilized means of hiring a substitute. This had worked out very well until the substitute thoughtlessly took a cannonball in Spain, leaving M. Berard once again in line for duty. No fool, he picked up and fled overseas, where he made himself into a roving French instructor, first at Dickinson College and then, yes, the United States Military Academy. No matter how far you fly, the army will have you. And if that be the case, M. Berard must have thought, how much nicer to serve out your time in the Hudson Highlands, listening to American youths grind the French language into meal. And yet had this not proved to be a torment as deep as any he had risked back home? M. Berard had reason, in short, to question himself, and this skeptical note never left him, it formed a moving black speck in the center of his eye even as he remained utterly still.
Now, though, at the sight of his commandant, he jumped straight to his feet, and the cadets likewise rose from their backless benches. Hitchcock waved them back down and motioned me to a pair of seats just inside the door.
Sinking back into his chair, M. Berard gazed with blue-veined lids at the fourth classman who stood unguarded in the center of the room, squinting into a red-leather quarto.
"Continue, Mr. Plunkett," said the Frenchman.
This unfortunate cadet once more clawed his way through the over-brush of prose: "He arrived to an inn and put away his horse. He then ate... a hearty dinner on bread and... poison."
"Ah, Mr. Plunkett," said the instructor. "That would not be a very palatable meal, even to a cadet. Poisson translates as "fish'."
So corrected, the cadet made ready to resume until he was stopped by M. Berard's plump white hand.
"Enough. You may be seated. The next time, I entreat you to take greater care with your prepositions. One-point-three is your grade."
Three more cadets broke themselves on the same book, coming away with grades of 2.5, 1.9, and 2.1, respectively. Another pair labored away at the blackboard, conjugating verbs to similar effect. No one spoke a word of French. Their whole end in learning the tongue was to translate military texts, and many a lad must have asked himself why he was wasting his time with bread and poison when he might instead be taking down Jomini's theories on terrain. It was left to M. Berard to make the case for Voltaire and Lesage, and he was too weary. Only once, ten minutes before the end of the recital, did he see fit to rouse himself. Which is to say, he pressed his hands together and inflected his voice ever so slightly upward.
"Mr. Poe, please."
From the far side of the room, a head jerked to attention; a body sprang forth.
"Mr. Poe. Would you please translate the following passage from Chapter Two of Histoire de Gil Blas?"
Three paces brought the cadet to the center of the room. Fronted by Berard, flanked by his peers, watched by the commandant: he was on the spot, and he knew it. Opening the book, he cleared his throat--twice-- and began.
"While they were preparing my eggs, I joined in conversation with the landlady, whom I had never seen before. She struck me as pretty enough. ..."
Two things were clear right away. First, he knew more French than the others. And second, he wanted to make this rendition of Gil Blas linger for generations unborn. "He came up to me with a friendly air: "I have just heard that you are' ... oh, shall we say, "the eminent Gil Blas of Santillane, the ornament of Oviedo and the torch' --sorry, "the leading light of philosophy'."
I was so caught up in the performance--the jab of the jaw, the slicing motion of the hands-- that I was slow to notice the change in Berard's face. He was smiling, yes, but his eyes had a feline hardness that made me think a trap had been sprung. And soon I had all the confirmation I needed, as the first titters came leaking from the seated
Now, though, at the sight of his commandant, he jumped straight to his feet, and the cadets likewise rose from their backless benches. Hitchcock waved them back down and motioned me to a pair of seats just inside the door.
Sinking back into his chair, M. Berard gazed with blue-veined lids at the fourth classman who stood unguarded in the center of the room, squinting into a red-leather quarto.
"Continue, Mr. Plunkett," said the Frenchman.
This unfortunate cadet once more clawed his way through the over-brush of prose: "He arrived to an inn and put away his horse. He then ate... a hearty dinner on bread and... poison."
"Ah, Mr. Plunkett," said the instructor. "That would not be a very palatable meal, even to a cadet. Poisson translates as "fish'."
So corrected, the cadet made ready to resume until he was stopped by M. Berard's plump white hand.
"Enough. You may be seated. The next time, I entreat you to take greater care with your prepositions. One-point-three is your grade."
Three more cadets broke themselves on the same book, coming away with grades of 2.5, 1.9, and 2.1, respectively. Another pair labored away at the blackboard, conjugating verbs to similar effect. No one spoke a word of French. Their whole end in learning the tongue was to translate military texts, and many a lad must have asked himself why he was wasting his time with bread and poison when he might instead be taking down Jomini's theories on terrain. It was left to M. Berard to make the case for Voltaire and Lesage, and he was too weary. Only once, ten minutes before the end of the recital, did he see fit to rouse himself. Which is to say, he pressed his hands together and inflected his voice ever so slightly upward.
"Mr. Poe, please."
From the far side of the room, a head jerked to attention; a body sprang forth.
"Mr. Poe. Would you please translate the following passage from Chapter Two of Histoire de Gil Blas?"
Three paces brought the cadet to the center of the room. Fronted by Berard, flanked by his peers, watched by the commandant: he was on the spot, and he knew it. Opening the book, he cleared his throat--twice-- and began.
"While they were preparing my eggs, I joined in conversation with the landlady, whom I had never seen before. She struck me as pretty enough. ..."
Two things were clear right away. First, he knew more French than the others. And second, he wanted to make this rendition of Gil Blas linger for generations unborn. "He came up to me with a friendly air: "I have just heard that you are' ... oh, shall we say, "the eminent Gil Blas of Santillane, the ornament of Oviedo and the torch' --sorry, "the leading light of philosophy'."
I was so caught up in the performance--the jab of the jaw, the slicing motion of the hands-- that I was slow to notice the change in Berard's face. He was smiling, yes, but his eyes had a feline hardness that made me think a trap had been sprung. And soon I had all the confirmation I needed, as the first titters came leaking from the seated
Similar Books
