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Updated: June 17, 2025
"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 "
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.
"Oh, monsieur, I'd rather face death, I believe, than that you should remain here." But he pushed her gently towards the door, and a moment afterwards he heard her talking to Duclosse and her mother. He sat down on the couch and listened for a moment. His veins were still glowing from the wild moment just passed. Elise would come back and then what?
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.
"There's the Seigneur. He's going into Parliament." "He's a magistrate that's enough," said Duclosse. "He's started the court under the big tree, as the Seigneurs did two hundred years ago. He'll want a gibbet and a gallows next." "I should think he'd stay at home and not take more on his shoulders!" said the one-eyed shoemaker. Without a word, Lajeunesse threw a dish of water in Gingras's face.
"Oh, monsieur, I'd rather face death, I believe, than that you should remain here." But he pushed her gently towards the door, and a moment afterwards he heard her talking to Duclosse and her mother. He sat down on the couch and listened for a moment. His veins were still glowing from the wild moment just passed. Elise would come back and then what?
She was beside the open door of the oven; and it would be hard to tell whether her face was suffering from heat or from blushes. However that might chance, her mouth was soft and sweet, and her eyes were still wet. "Who is he, Parpon?" she asked, not looking at him. "Is he like Duclosse the mealman, or Lajeunesse the blacksmith, or Garotte the lime-burner-and the rest?"
"Mark you, I was born a man of fame, walking bloody paths to glory; but, by the grace of Heaven and my baptism, I became a forgeron. Let others ride to glory, I'll shoe their horses for the gallop." "You'll be in Parliament yet, Lajeunesse," said Duclosse the mealman, who had been dozing on a pile of untired cart-wheels. "I'll be hanged first, comrade." "One in the family at a time," said Muroc.
There was a slight pause, for the old man's voice had the ring of a fatal earnestness. It was no farce, but a real thing. "Swear," he said again. "Raise your right hand." "Done!" said Muroc. "To the devil with the charcoal! I'll go wash my face." "There's my hand on it," added Duclosse; "but that rascal Petrie will get my trade, and I'd rather be strung by the Orleans than that."
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