recompense for our virtues, and harmonized so well with Passy butter. It
was too delicious! But there was always a difficulty, a dilemma--whether
to eat it with butter alone, or with "cassonade" (French brown
sugar) added.

Mimsey knew her own mind, and loved it with French brown sugar, and if
she were not there I would save for her half of my slices, and carefully
cassonade them for her myself.

On the other hand, we thought everything French the reverse of
beastly--except all the French boys we knew, and at M. Saindou's there
were about two hundred; then there were all the boys in Passy (whose
name was legion, and who _did not_ go to M. Saindou's), and we knew all
the boys in Passy. So that we were not utterly bereft of material for
good, stodgy, crusty, patriotic English prejudice.

Nor did the French boys fail to think us beastly in return, and
sometimes to express the thought; especially the little vulgar boys,
whose playground was the street--the _voyous de Passy_. They hated our
white silk chimney-pot hats and large collars and Eton jackets, and
called us "sacred godems," as their ancestors used to call ours in the
days of Joan of Arc. Sometimes they would throw stones, and then there
were collisions, and bleedings of impertinent little French noses, and
runnings away of cowardly little French legs, and dreadful wails of "O
la, la! O, la, la--maman!" when they were overtaken by English ones.

Not but what _our_ noses were made to bleed now and then,
unvictoriously, by a certain blacksmith--always the same young
blacksmith--Boitard!