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He is in marked contrast to the levelling hatred of excellence, the Christian trades-unionism of the model Catholic of the mould of S. Francois de Sales whose maxim of life is "marchons avec la troupe de nos freres et compagnons, doucement, paisiblement, et amiablement." To Milton the people are But a herd confus'd, A miscellaneous rabble, who extol Things vulgar. Paradise Regained, iii. 49.
Do not forget Sam Aylward, for his heart shall ever be thine alone and thine, ma petite! So, marchons, and may St. Julian grant us as good quarters elsewhere!" The sun had risen over Ashurst and Denny woods, and was shining brightly, though the eastern wind had a sharp flavor to it, and the leaves were flickering thickly from the trees.
In the centre of the noisy group was a big fellow with a black mustache. "I tell you, my boys," he cried, "we go to the Rue Champlain, to the Moulin Gris of old Trudel. There is good stuff to drink there; we'll make a night of it! My m'sieu' comes to seek me, but he will not find me until to-morrow. Shut your mouth, you Louis. What do we care for the police? Come, Suzanne, marchons!"
Marchons, marchons!" said the young man gaily. His host, however, at this, but continued to stand agaze; and he had the next thing repeated his question of a moment before. "Has Miss Gostrey come back?" "Yes, two days ago." "Then you've seen her?" "No I'm to see her to-day." But Strether wouldn't linger now on Miss Gostrey. "Your mother sends me an ultimatum.
Who that can even stumble through the "Marchons! Marchons!" of the "Marseillaise" but is a sharer for a moment in the rush of glory that every now and again has made France the light of the world?
Then Robespierre jumped nimbly into the berline. The door closed, the postillion's whip cracked briskly, and they set out upon a journey which to La Boulaye was to be as the passing from one life to another. Allons! Marchons! Qu'un sang impur Abreuve nos sillons! La Marseillaise.
Formez vos bataillons!" Around the room they marched singing, "Marchons! Marchons!" with all their might, while Fallowby with very bad grace, hammered on the table, consoling himself a little with the hope that the exercise would increase his appetite. Hercules, the black and tan, fled under the bed, from which retreat he yapped and whined until dragged out by Guernalec and placed in Odile's lap.
Was there ever a better type of the French nation than this old soldier? As long as fortune smiles on them, it is "Marchons au diable!" and "Vive la gloire!" Directly they get beaten, it is "Ma pauvre patrie!" and "Les calamites affreuses de la guerre!"
"'Aux armes, citoyens!" Her hands swept the audience. "'Marchons! Marchons!" She pointed at the crowd. Each man felt her fiery glance pierce to him France called she was holding out her arms to her sons to die for her "'Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!" The singer gathered the great flag to her heart. The tears rolled down her cheeks; she kissed it with the passion of a mistress.
As they swung along to the rhythmical thud of the drum, their voices were raised in a fearful chorus that must have made one think of the choirs of hell, and the song they sang was the song of Rouget de l'Isle, which all France had been singing these twelve months past: "Aux armes, citoyens! Formez vos bataillons. Allons, marchons! Qu'un sang inpur Abreuve nos sillons!"
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