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Updated: September 16, 2025
Maybe he was thinking of his fifty years of hard work on high ladders, his fifty years spent painting doors and whitewashing ceilings in every corner of Paris. "Well, Pere Bru," Gervaise would say, "what are you thinking of now?" "Nothing much. All sorts of things," he would answer quietly.
Merciful heavens! It was Father Bru begging and Mme Coupeau doing worse. They stood looking at each other equals in misery. The aged workman had been trying to make up his mind all the evening to beg, and the first person he stopped was a woman as poor as himself! This was indeed the irony of fate. Was it not a pity to have toiled for fifty years and then to beg his bread?
When two or three days elapsed without his showing himself someone opened the door and looked in to see if he were still alive. Yes, he was living; that is, he was not dead. When Gervaise had bread she always remembered him. If she had learned to hate men because of her husband her heart was still tender toward animals, and Father Bru seemed like one to her. She regarded him as a faithful old dog.
Whenever Gervaise saw Pere Bru walking outside, she would call him in and arrange a place for him close to the stove. Often she gave him some bread and cheese. Pere Bru's face was as wrinkled as a withered apple. He would sit there, with his stooping shoulders and his white beard, without saying a word, just listening to the coke sputtering in the stove.
And she went off with the lad, while Bru seized his crook, seeing which the young fellow raised his gun. "Seize him! seize him!" the shepherd shouted, urging on his dogs, while the other had already got his finger on the trigger to fire at them. But La Morillonne pushed down the muzzle and called out: "Here, dogs! here! Prr, prr, my beauties!"
Thus we debase The nature of our seats, and make the rabble Call our cares, fears: which will in time break ope The locks o' the senate, and bring in the crows To peck the eagles. Mem. Come, enough. Bru. Enough, with over measure. Cor. No, take more; What may be sworn by, both divine and human, Seal what I end withal!
It is a purposed thing, and grows by plot, To curb the will of the nobility: Suffer it, and live with such as cannot rule, Nor ever will be ruled. Bru. Call't not a plot: The people cry you mocked them; and of late, When corn was given them gratis, you repined; Scandaled the suppliants for the people; called them Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness. Cor. Why, this was known before. Bru.
And I replied: 'Yes, Monsieur Bru, there are some people in this world who do not know the usages of common politeness. "The little man in linen pretended not to hear, nor his fat lump of a wife, either." Here the President interrupted him a second time: "Take care, you are insulting the widow, Madame Flameche, who is present."
Consider this; he has been bred i' the WARS Since he could draw a sword, and is ill school'd In boulted language Meal and bran, together He throws without distinction. First Sen. Noble tribunes. It is the humane way: the other course Will prove too bloody; and the END of it, Unknown to the beginning. Sic. Bru. Go not home, Sic. MEET on the MARKET-PLACE,
This deserves death. Bru. Or let us stand to our authority, Or let us lose it: Truly, one hears the Revolutionary voices here. Observing the history which is in all men's lives, 'Figuring the nature of the times deceased, a man may prophesy, as it would seem, 'with a near aim, quite near 'of the main chance of things, as yet, not come to life, which in their weak beginnings lie intreasured.
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