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"Fery well, t'en," said Pelletan, proudly, opening the door, "pehold my sty!" and he stood aside that his companion might enter.
"Tu t'en repentiras, Colin, Tu t'en repentiras, Car si tu prends une femme, Colin, Tu t'en repentiras." The advice may apply very well when there is a French wife in the case; but not, I am sure, to an Englishman who is thinking of an English wife. This choice of a song was exceedingly mal-apropos, had Mrs Gibson but known it.
Again he writes: "I am now to accompany him on a cross-country raid. Farewell to my wife and little one. I will die like a Montmartrois for the honor of France!" Finally an appeal urgent, pitiful, telegraphic: "Take me away, je t'en prie! This maniac wishes now to discuss the possibility of a somersault in the air. I can no more Georges."
A fortnight or so after Wolfe's army and Saunders's fleet had sat down before Quebec, McGilveray, having been told by a sentry at Montmorenci where Anstruther's regiment was camped, that a French girl on the other side of the stream had kissed her hand to him and sung across in laughing insolence: "Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre,"
But all at once one of them turned round, and said to me angrily: "Veux-tu bien t'en aller, petit espion!" otherwise: "Be off, little spy!" I woke up as it were, looked at him, and to my amazement recognized Gambetta, whom I had seen several times already, when I was with my mentor Brossard at either the Cafe de Suede or the Cafe de Madrid.
Sir Thomas, with an inarticulate growl, relapsed into silence; and she resumed her walk with bent head, lost in thought, up and down the great room, out of the pale winter sunshine into the shadow, and back again, to the tune of "Malbrook s'en va t'en guerre," which she hummed beneath her breath, while the baby's foolish little head, in its white cap from which protruded one tiny straight wisp of brown hair, with its beady, unseeing black eyes and its round mouth dribbling peacefully, bobbed over her shoulder as she went.
The black cat, which had been cruising, after the inquisitive fashion of its kind, in far corners of the room, strolled back and looked up to the table where the bowl of coffee steamed and waited. "Get out!" cried Ste. Marie. "Va t'en, sale petit animal! Go and eat birds! That's my coffee. Va! Sauve toi! Hé, voleur que tu es!"
But the terrible sobs went on, and fearfully he caught her closer, straining her to him convulsively, raining kisses on her shining hair. "Diane, Diane," he whispered imploringly, falling back into the soft French that seemed so much more natural. "Mon amour, ma bien-aimee. Ne pleures pas, je t'en prie. Je t'aime, je t'adore. Tu resteras pres de moi, tout a moi."
Et ce cher portrait du divin Shakespeare Qu'un soir pour souper nons avons vendu! J'etais mendiant et toi charitable. Je baisais au vol tes bras frais et ronds. Dante in folio nous servait de table Pour manger gaiment un cent de marrons. La premiere fois qu'en mon joyeux bouge Je pris un baiser a ton levre en feu, Quand tu t'en allais decoiffee et rouge, Je restai tout pale et je crus en Dieu!
A wisp of smoke stole from a stone chimney, and the smell that corn-pone and bacon leave was in the air. A bolt was slammed back, a door creaked and stuck, was flung open, and with a "Va t'en, mechant!" a cotton-clad urchin was cast out of the house, and fled into the dusty street. Breathing the morning air in the doorway, stood a young woman in a cotton gown, a saucepan in hand.
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