Parbleu, Madame!  I have succeeded tolerably well in French; for I understand not only patois, but even patrician, governess French.  Not long ago, when in an aristocratic circle, I understood nearly one-half of the conversation of two German countesses, each of whom could count at least sixty-four years, and as many ancestors.  Yes, in the Cafe Royal in Berlin, I once heard Monsieur Hans Michel Martens talking French, and could understand every word he spoke, though there was no understanding in anything he said.  We must know the spirit of a language, and this is best learned by drumming. Parbleu! how much do I not owe to the French drummer who was so long quartered in our house, who looked like a devil, and yet had the good heart of an angel, and withal drummed so divinely!

He was a little, nervous figure, with a terrible black mustache, beneath which red lips sprang forth defiantly, while his wild eyes shot fiery glances all round.

I, a young shaver, stuck to him like a burr, and helped him to clean his military buttons till they shone like mirrors, and to pipe-clay his vest—­for Monsieur Le Grand liked to look well—­and I followed him to the guard house, to the roll-call, to the parade-ground—­in those times there was nothing but the gleam of weapons and merriment—­les jours de fete sont passes!  Monsieur Le Grand knew but a little broken German, only the three principal words, “Bread,” “Kiss,” “Honor”—­but he could make himself very intelligible with his drum.  For instance, if I knew not what the word liberte meant, he drummed the Marseillaise—­and I understood him.  If I did not understand the word egalite, he drummed the march—­

  “Ca ira, ca ira, ca ira,
  Les aristocrats a la lanterne!”

and I understood him.  If I did not know what Betise meant, he drummed the Dessauer March, which we Germans, as Goethe also declares, drummed in Champagne—­and I understood him.  He once wanted to explain to me the word l’Allemagne (or Germany), and he drummed the all too simple melody which on market-days is played to dancing-dogs, namely, dum-dum-dum!  I was vexed, but I understood him for all that!

In like manner he taught me modern history.  I did not understand, it is true, the words which he spoke, but as he constantly drummed while speaking, I knew what he meant.  This is, fundamentally, the best method.  The history of the storming of the Bastile, of the Tuileries, and the like, cannot be correctly understood until we know how the drumming was done on such occasions.  In our school compendiums of history we merely read:  “Their Excellencies the Barons and Counts and their noble spouses, their Highnesses the Dukes and Princes and their most noble spouses were beheaded.  His Majesty the King, and his most illustrious spouse, the Queen, were beheaded.”—­But when you hear the red march of the guillotine drummed,