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Updated: June 22, 2025
If they were as visible as all that, the High Command would have noticed it and would have taken steps just for field service, and without interfering with the parade uniform!" The regimental sergeant-major cut the discussion short as he turned to Brisbille with vibrant scorn and said, "When the Day of Revenge comes, we shall have to be there to defend you!"
"Folks aren't wicked," he says, "but they're stupid, stupid, stupid." And Brisbille cries. Just then Father Piot advances into the space, with his silver aureole, his benevolent smile, and the vague and continuous lisping which trickles from his lips. He stops in the middle of us, gives a nod to each one and continuing his ingenuous reflections aloud, he murmurs, "Hem, hem!
Why, you damned snob, you're only a poor drudge, like all us chaps, but haven't you just got the snob's ideas?" I make a sign of impatience. It is not true, and Brisbille annoys me with the hatred which he hurls at random, hit or miss; and all the more because he is himself visibly impressed by the approach of this man who is richer than the rest.
Those who are marking time around the obscure fanatic are growling, "He's not only bad, he's mad, the dirty beast!" "It's disgraceful," says the young curate. Brisbille goes up to him. "You tell me, then, you, what'll happen very soon Jesuit, puppet, land-shark! We know you, you and your filthy, poisonous trade!" "Say that again!" It was I who said that.
She opens wide the eyes which seem eternally full of tears, and in the grayish abiding half-mourning of imperfect cleanliness, in pallid excitement, she claps her hands. Marie and I can hear the furious desperate hammering of Brisbille in his forge, and we begin to laugh as we have not laughed for a long time. At night, before going to sleep, I recall my former democratic fancies.
The Marquis and Marchioness of Monthyon appeared at the sacristy. Brisbille, by good luck, stayed away. Good sectarian that he was, he only acknowledged civil marriages.
And I, I am thinking that if I were older or more influential in the district, perhaps I should be in the Pocard scheme, which is taking shape, and will be huge. Meanwhile, Brisbille is scowling. An unconfessable disquiet is accumulating in his bosom. All this gathering is detaining him at home, and he is tormented by the desire for drink.
Brisbille can shout, but not talk; there must be a definite pressure of anger before his resounding huskiness issues from his throat. Mame comes in. She sits on a stool to get her breath again, all the while brandishing the twisted key which she clasps to the prayer-book in her hand.
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