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Stepan Trofimovitch was getting weaker and weaker. "Now read me another passage.... About the pigs," he said suddenly. "What?" asked Sofya Matveyevna, very much alarmed. "About the pigs... that's there too... ces cochons. I remember the devils entered into swine and they all were drowned. You must read me that; I'll tell you why afterwards. I want to remember it word for word.
You are all robbers you English cochons!" He opened the door and went out. Ferrol was about to follow him, but he had a sudden fit of weakness, and he caught up a pillow, and, throwing it on the chest where Shangois had sat, stretched himself upon it. He lay still for quite a long time, and presently fell into a doze. In those days no event made a lasting impression on him.
This story justifies the reply of Talleyrand, when asked by Napoleon what he thought of the Americans, "Sire, ce sont des fiers cochons, et des cochons fiers." Literature Extracts Fine Arts Education The character of the American literature is, generally speaking, pretty justly appreciated in Europe.
Du fromage gras. Petit lait. Du fromage mi-gras. De la crême. Du fromage maigre. Du lait de beurre. Tome de vache. Petit lait de chèvre. Tome de chèvre. Pour les Cochons. Du lait gâté. Cuite. Some of the solids and fluids in the earlier part of this carte we felt tolerably sure of finding at the maire's châlet, and accordingly any amount of cream and séret proved to be forthcoming.
"You will oblige me by remaining in bed, sir, for a moment." "Coquins! Canailles! Cochons!" shrieked the lady. "Madame," said Colonel Clark, politely, "the necessities of war are often cruel."
The peasant reads but little history not at all; but Jean Bonhomme looks up at the cliffs and finds the story of the past graven there; and just as the twinge of a corn is still felt after the foot has been amputated, so though the English rule has passed away, three hundred and fifty years have intervened he still winces, and curses the haunts "de ces cochons d'Anglais," though in fact ces cochons were his own compatriots, doubled-dyed in iniquity, as traitors to their country and their King.
Its calamitous happenings are "in the archives." I have the word of the secretary-general of the Etablissments Français de l'Oceanie for that, and in the saloons and coffee-houses they talked loudly of the "bataille entre les cochons Anglais et les héros les Français et les Tahitiens."
Of course, he should have said sacré mille cochons or nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu; but, though in appearance, so to say, an embodied "sacré" he seemed to find the American vernacular sufficiently expressive. "Is it a go, then?" said I. "It's a go," said Colin, once more in American. And we shook on it. It was wonderful what a change our new plan wrought in our spirits.
"Death to Bulgaria" was their cry. Not a metre of land to be ceded to those "cochons de Bulgares." "We went," they said, "willingly to fight the Turk. We go with ten times more joy to fight the Bulgars; they are our worst enemies." And they would listen to no remonstrance.
It was the magazine hurled by the burly Englishman, who followed up the assault by a torrent of abuse. "Allez-vous-ong! Cochons! Et plus vite que ça!" There was something terrific in his awful British accent. The pair turned in obvious dismay. He waved them off. "Don't give them anything. The baby hasn't any red spots. There isn't a baby. They daren't show their noses in the rooms.
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