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Updated: June 17, 2025
Lord, how I remember " "Better than that-eh?" persisted Duclosse, perspiring, the meal on his face making a sort of paste. "A general or a governor, my children," said Lagroin. "First in, first served. Best men, best pickings.
Wouldn't the girl rather have him, Valmond, at any price, than the priest-blessed love of Duclosse and his kind? The thought possessed, devoured him for a moment. Then suddenly there again rang in his ears the words which had haunted him all day: "Holy bread, I take thee; If I die suddenly, Serve me as a sacrament."
Dirt don't stick to you as to me and the meal man. Duclosse there used to look like a pie when the meal and sweat dried on him. When we reach Paris, and His Excellency gets his own, I'll take to charcoal again; I'll fill the palace cellars. That suits me better than chalk and washing every day." "Do you think we'll ever get to Paris?" asked the mealman, cocking his head seriously.
Importuned by the Cure and her mother to marry, she had threatened, if they worried her further, to wed fat Duclosse, the mealman, who had courted her in a ponderous way for at least three years. The fire that corrodes, when it does not make glorious without and within, was in her veins, and when Valmond should call she was ready to come.
Lajeunesse, Garotte, and Muroc were invaluable, each after his kind. Duclosse the mealman was sutler. The young Seigneur and his companions were not challenged, and they passed on up to the Rock of Red Pigeons. Looking down, they had a perfect view of the encampment.
"But suppose they fired at us 'stead of at His Excellency?" asked the mealman. "Then, mealman, you'd settle your account for lightweights sooner than you want." Duclosse twisted his mouth dubiously. He was not sure how far his enthusiasm would carry him. Muroc shook his shaggy head in mirth. "Well, 'tis true we're getting off to France," said the lime-burner.
Therefore the notables among the habitants had gathered in his empty house for a last drink of good-fellowship Muroc the charcoalman, Duclosse the mealman, Benoit the ne'er-do-weel, Gingras the one-eyed shoemaker, and a few others. They had drunk the health of Medallion, they had drunk the health of the Cure, and now Duclosse the mealman raised his glass. "Here's to "
"'These are bagatelles, said His Excellency to me; 'but tell my friends, Monsieur Muroc and Monsieur Duclosse and Monsieur Garotte, that they are buttons for the coats of my sergeants, and that my captains' coats have ten times as many buttons. Tell them, said he, 'that my friends shall share my fortunes; that France needs us; that Pontiac shall be called the nest of heroes.
He scarcely knew what he said, but it had meaning. "Good-bye-leper," he answered. Pomfrette's arm flew out to throw the pitcher at the mealman's head, but Duclosse, with a grunt of terror, flung up in front of his face the small bag of meal that he carried, the contents pouring over his waistcoat from a loose corner.
He felt instantly that he had made a mistake, had been cruel, though he had not intended it. "Ruin to me," he said at once. "Duclosse is a stupid fellow: he would not understand; he would desert me; and that would be disastrous at this moment. Go down," he said. "I will wait here, Elise." Her brows knitted painfully.
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