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At that moment she heard a voice saying to the provost: "Corboeuf! Monsieur le Prevot, 'tis no affair of mine, a man of arms, to hang witches. The rabble of the populace is suppressed. I leave you to attend to the matter alone. You will allow me to rejoin my company, who are waiting for their captain." The voice was that of Phoebus de Chateaupers; that which took place within her was ineffable.
I said this to my father, who spit his curse in my face; to my mother, who set to weeping and chattering, poor old lady, like yonder fagot on the and-irons. Long live mirth! I am a real Bicetre. Waitress, my dear, more wine. I have still the wherewithal to pay. I want no more Surene wine. It distresses my throat. I'd as lief, corboeuf! gargle my throat with a basket."
The host then went out by a rear door, and the governor resumed the conversation. "Corboeuf! He is a fox, this Tournoire, who makes his excursions by night, and who cannot be tracked to his burrow." "We know, at least," put in the secretary, in his mild way, "that his burrow is somewhere in the wooded mountains at the southern border of the province."
It is a new method we have invented for measuring people of quality, who are too sensitive to allow low-born fellows to touch them. We know some susceptible persons who will not put up with being measured, a process which, as I think, wounds the natural dignity of a man; and if perchance monsieur should be one of these " "Corboeuf! I believe I am too!"
"Corboeuf! he had enough to do on his own account." "How so?" "I left him in the hands of a dyer whose wife's cap he had pulled off, and who, with his five or six apprentices, seemed likely to make him pass an unpleasant quarter of an hour." "Par la mordieu! and where did you leave my poor Schomberg? I will go myself to his aid.
He turned, thinking that the king had sent some message to him, and great was his stupefaction to see behind him the demure face of Robert Briquet. It may be remembered that the first feeling of these two men about one another had not been exactly sympathetical. Borromée opened his mouth, and paused; and in an instant was joined by Chicot. "Corboeuf!" said Borromée.
"Well, my dear friend, Louis XIV. always has the heartache; it is deplorable to see a king sighing from morning till night without saying once in course of the day, ventre-saint-gris! corboeuf! or anything to rouse one." "Was that the reason why you quitted the service, monsieur le chevalier?" "Yes."
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