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When will our Protestantism, or Rationalism, or whatever it may be, sit as lightly upon ourselves? Another time I had the following dialogue with an old Piedmontese priest who lived in a castle which I asked permission to go over: "Vous etes Anglais, monsieur?" said he in French. "Oui, monsieur." "Vous etes Catholique?" "Monsieur, je suis de la religion de mes ancetres."
She was giving expression to her habitual contempt for her sex as she crooned over, in a sufficiently audible voice to reach the ear of Fanchon, a hateful song of Jean Le Meung on women: "'Toutes vous etes, serez ou futes, De fait ou de volonte putes!"
Gentilshommes, have de goodness to make de face to de right par file, dat is, by files. Marsh! Mais, tres bien; encore, Messieurs; il faut vous mettre a la marche. ... Marchez done, au nom de Dieu, parceque j'ai oublie le mot Anglois; mais vous etes des braves gens, et me comprenez tres bien. The Count next hastened to put the cavalry in motion. 'Gentilmans cavalry, you must fall in.
In passing the Rue Castiglione we saw it was full of soldiers, and looking toward the Place de la Concorde we saw more barricades there. This was a sight to behold! A very impertinent, common-looking voyou said, on looking at Mr. Washburn's card, "Vous etes tous tres chic... mais vous ne passerez pas, tout de meme." We shook in our shoes. But Mr.
After asking for more rolls, we accosted him with the usual phrase, "Et vous, Monsieur, vous etes bon patriote?" *"And you, Sir, are without doubt, a good patriot?" "Oh Lord, Sir, yes; one's obliged to be so, now-a-days." Mr. P admitted the man's tone of voice and countenance as good evidence, and acknowledged I was right.
She spoke of Madame de Stael's Delphine with detestation, of another new and fashionable novel, Amelie, with abhorrence, and kissed my forehead twice because I had not read it, "Vous autres Anglaises vous etes modestes!" Where was Madame de Genlis's sense of delicacy when she penned and published Les Chevaliers du Cygne?
"Comme vous êtes amiable!" said the lively Portuguese, who comprehended little of this dumb show; "here have I been flattering myself what friends you'd be the very moment you meet, and now you'll not even look at each other." What was to be done?
"Madame la Duchesse! puis je vous demander sans indiscrétion, a quelle heure vous êtes revenue hier au soir?" Lady Caithness looked a little surprised, but answered readily enough: "Well, it must have been past midnight; I did not notice very specially." "Not past midnight, mother," corrected the Duc de Pomar; "I heard a clock strike twelve just as we were driving through the Porte Cochère."
Sometimes when I am discussing with very intimate friends some question and I find that I cannot understand their views and they cannot understand mine, they always come back to the real difficulty: "Ecoutez, chere amie, vous etes d'une autre race."
She hung her head over her plate, and strove to avoid attention by keeping as quiet as possible. "They speak too quick. It's rude to gabble!" she told herself resentfully. "And I know some French meself. `J'ai, tu as, il a, nous sommes, vous etes, ils sont. Listen at that, now!"
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