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Updated: June 28, 2025
"Wife, let's have some of the red cabbage that you preserved," said Carhaix, whose pale face was lighted up while his great canine eyes were becoming suspiciously moist. Visibly he was jubilant. He was at table with friends, in his tower, safe from the cold. "But, empty your glasses. You are not drinking," he said, holding up the cider pot.
Now and on this point, Carhaix, who is distressed by these theories, can't reprehend me I am for the under dog. That's a generous and perfectly proper idea." "But Manicheism is impossible!" cried the bell-ringer. "Two infinities cannot exist together." "But nothing can exist if you get to reasoning. The moment you argue the Catholic dogma everything goes to pieces.
Carhaix triumphantly, serving to each in turn a mahogany-colour bouillon whose iridescent surface was looped with rings of topaz. It was succulent and unctuous, robust and yet delicate, flavoured as it was with the broth of a whole flock of boiled chickens.
I shall still be a man with a grievance, whom nothing can pacify," and he smiled at his wife who was bringing him a spoonful of the potion to swallow. The doorbell rang. Mme. Carhaix went to answer it and a hilarious and red-faced priest entered, crying in a great voice, "It's Jacob's ladder, that stairway!
"There used to be a swing in here," said Carhaix, "for the little girls of the neighbourhood. But the privilege was abused, as privileges always are. In the dusk all kinds of things were done for a few sous. The curate finally had the swing taken down and the room closed up."
"It's no collection at all," said Carhaix with a sigh. "The best ones are wanting, the De campanis commentarius of Angelo Rocca and the De tintinnabulo of Percichellius, but they are so hard to find, and so expensive when you do find them."
What I am most worried about is a state of enfeeblement inexplicable in a man who is neither cancerous nor diabetical." "Ah," said Carhaix, "I suppose people are not betwitched now with wax images and needles, with the 'Manei' or the 'Dagyde' as it was called in the good old days." "No, those practises are now out of date and almost everywhere fallen into disuse.
I interrupted his experiments here one day. But pour yourself some liqueur, Monsieur Durtal, and you, Des Hermies, why, you aren't drinking at all," and while, lighting their cigarettes, both sipped a few drops of almost proof cognac, Carhaix resumed, "Gévingey, who, though an astrologer, is a good Christian and an honest man whom, indeed, I should be glad to see again wished to consult my bells.
"But I like this place. I was made for it. Now my wife dreams constantly of spending her last days in Landévennec." Des Hermies rose. All shook hands, and monsieur and madame made Durtal swear that he would come again. "What refreshing people!" exclaimed Durtal as he and Des Hermies crossed the square. "And Carhaix is a mine of information."
"Then it must be supposed that Johannès is a man amended ahead of time, an apostle animated by the Holy Ghost?" "And so he is," said the astrologer, firmly assured. "Will you please pass the gingerbread?" Carhaix requested. "Here's the way to fix it," said Durtal. "First cut a slice very thin, then take a slice of ordinary bread, equally thin, butter them and put them together.
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