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The tale she had to tell was very old and very sad. She did not begin it, however, until, drawing off her old gloves, for coolness' sake, she disclosed a wedding ring on her finger. His eye caught it at once. "Why, you are married." "Yes," she said, "I am married." "You don't speak in the tone of a happy woman." She shrugged hopeless shoulders. "A woman isn't happy with a goujat for a husband."
Now a goujat is a word for which scoundrel, and miscreant, are but weak translations. It denotes lowest depths of infamy. Andrew frowned terribly. "He ill-treats you?" "He did. But that is past. Fortunately I am alone. He has deserted me." "Children?" "Thank God, no," replied Elodie. And then it all came out in the unrestrained torrent of the south.
And what little beauty she had her illness had taken away, so her only weapon was gone; and Raoul jeered at her and openly flaunted his infidelities in her presence. When she used beyond a certain point the ready tongue with which Providence had endowed her, she was soundly beaten. "Le goujat!" cried Andrew. Ah! It was a life of hell.
In response the old man with grotesque solemnity drew his buckhorn handled knife, licked its blade and returned it to its sheath, a bit of pantomime well understood and keenly enjoyed by the onlooking creoles. "Putois! coquin!" they jeered, "goujat! poltron!"
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