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Updated: June 7, 2025
The meal over, Jeannette sang her songs, sitting on the rug before the fire, Le Beau Voyageur, Les Neiges de la Cloche, ballads in Canadian patois sung to minor airs brought over from France two hundred years before.
The setting of "La Cloche fêlée" of Baudelaire, for instance, is curiously Germanic and heavy, for all the subtlety and filigree of the voice and the accompanying piano and viola. It is a fairly flat waltz movement that in "A Pagan Poem" is chosen to represent the sublunary aspect of Virgil's genius.
The Trader had much to say of the magnificence and luxury of these men their cooks, their silken tents, their strange and costly foods, their rare wines, their hordes of French and Indian canoemen and packers. Then Cloche was a halting-place for the night. Its meadows had blossomed many times with the gay tents and banners of a great company.
Mademoiselle's laughter came first. They sat holding each other's eyes, shaken with laughter, until Mademoiselle said, sighing brokenly, "Et c'est la cloche qui va sonner immediatement." As they undressed, she went on talking "the night comes the black night... we must sleep... we must sleep in peace... we are safe... we are protected... nous craignons Dieu, n'est ce pas?"
'You know, continued Sergei Pavlitch after a long pause, 'that not such things.... But why am I saying this? you know everything, of course. At that instant a bell rang in the house. 'Ah! la cloche du diner! cried Mlle. Boncourt, 'rentrons.
"Remember, I pray you, that howbeit our present power, by the malice of our enemies, be brought to a narrow pass, we are still, by the grace of God your King, of full age, moreover, and no longer to be schooled. As touching what anyone may have heard here, by our consent, we need answer to no man; neither to Mr. La Cloche nor to your Lordship.
At the little old-world Croix-Blanche at Briey a stout, middle-aged, ruddy-faced English tourist had had his headquarters; while, again, at the unpretending Cloche d'Or in the Place St. Paul at Verdun another Englishman, a young, active, clean-shaven man, had been moving about the country in constant communication with "Mr. Maltwood."
Claude-Joseph Pillerault, formerly an iron-monger at the sign of the Cloche d'Or, had one of those faces whose beauty shines from the inner to the outer; about him all things harmonized, dress and manners, mind and heart, thought and speech, words and acts.
He tilted up the elevator slightly and shot across a series of fields, climbing. It was perfectly easy. He would go up up. It was all automatic now cloche toward him for climbing; away from him for descent; toward the wing that tipped up, in order to bring it down to level. The machine obeyed perfectly. And the foot-bar, for steering to right and left, responded to such light motions of his foot.
'Le Seigneur, says the old formula, 'enferme ses manants comme sous porte et gonds, du ciel a la terre. Tout est a lui, foret chenue, oiseau dans l'air, poisson dans l'eau, bete an buisson, l'onde qui coule, la cloche dont le son au loin roule. Such was his old state of sovereignty, a local god rather than a mere king.
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