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"You wish he did, don't you?" replied the king, with the malicious look at his barber. "Ventre-Mahom, sire, the inheritance would be a fine one between you and the devil!" "There, there!" said the king, "don't put bad ideas into my head. My crony is a more faithful man than those whose fortunes I have made perhaps because he owes me nothing."
And then, I am like the Marshal de Gie at the siege of Pontoise, I have my right resting on a hillock. Ventre-Mahom! Comrade! you have the air of a merchant of tennis-balls; and you come and sit yourself beside me! I am a nobleman, my friend! Trade is incompatible with nobility. Get out of that! Hola he! You others, don't fight!
Methinks I see Georges d'Estouteville, the nephew of the grand master of the archers." Hearing his real name uttered by Tristan, young d'Estouteville thought less of himself than of the dangers his recognition would bring upon his unfortunate mistress. To avert suspicion he cried out: "Ventre-Mahom! help, help to me, comrades!"
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