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Updated: June 8, 2025
The chain snapped taut, the bucket gulped its fill, and Monsieur le Maire caught sight of me. "Ah bigre!" he exclaimed as he left the bucket where it hung and came forward with both hands outstretched in welcome, a smile wrinkling his genial face, clean-shaven to the edges of his short, cropped gray side-whiskers, reaching well beneath his chin.
"True," he exclaimed, "I had forgotten that!" "Well, then, uncle " "He had accomplished his commission, I suppose," continued he. "Yes," I replied. "And as you were dead, and Mohammed's commission formed part of my inheritance from you, I thought that it was my duty " "Bigre!" said my uncle, "you know how to act the heir very well, you do!"
The Germans could not stand against us. They broke and ran. The roads where we chased them were full of empty wine-bottles. In one village we caught three officers and a dozen men dead drunk. Bigre! what a fine joke!" Pierre, leaning back upon his heels, was losing himself in his recital. His face lighted up, his hands were waving. Father Courcy bent forward with shining eyes.
"Bigre!" The Master was pale with rage. His lips drew back, disclosing long dark teeth and sickly gums, in a grimace of fury. He reached out to seize a hammer lying at his hand, but the apprentice said quickly: "Sapri that's the cholera hammer!" The Master of Burials dropped the hammer as though it were at white heat, and eyed it with scared scrutiny.
And not a sou thrown down! With an uneasy feeling that he had been involved in something that he did not understand, the lame, dark fiddler limped his way round the nearest corner, and for two streets at least did not stop. Then, counting the silver Fiorsen had put into his hand and carefully examining his fiddle, he used the word, "Bigre!" and started for home. Gyp hardly slept at all.
Very funereal in her green dress was tall Madame Polge, the ideal of dry nurses; she completed the picture. But where had the Empress's secretary gone? He was standing by a cradle, which he was scrutinizing sadly, shaking his head. "Bigre de Bigre!" whispered Pompon to Madame Polge. "It's the Wallachian."
Poor Casimir and his correspondence his infinitesimal, timorous, idiotic correspondence!" He had by this time cautiously unfolded the wet letter; but, as he bent himself to decipher the writing, a cloud descended on his brow. "Bigre!" he cried, with a galvanic start. And then the letter was whipped into the fire, and the Doctor's cap was on his head in the turn of a hand. "Ten minutes!
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