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"Mais sa montagne est un sainct lieu: Qui viendra done au mont de Dieu? Qui est-ce qui la tiendra place? Le homine de mains et coeur lave, En vanite non esleve Et qui n'a jure en fallace." Marot wrote in his preface to the psalms:
"Dites-moi, Monsieur Hoppair," continued the valet, laying a trembling finger on the arm of the remorseless young rogue; "est-ce la France?" "One would think a man of your observation could tell that for himself. Do you not see the church-tower, with a chateau in the back-ground, and a village built in a heap, by its side. Now look into yon wood!
"Est-ce que ma robe va bien?" cried she, bounding forwards; "et mes souliers? et mes bas? Tenez, je crois que je vais danser!" And spreading out her dress, she chasseed across the room till, having reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him on tip-toe, then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming
Are they little commercial play, are they music, are they 'la belle conversation', or are they all three? 'Y file-t-on le parfait amour? Y debite-t-on les beaux sentimens? Ou est-ce yu'on y parle Epigramme? And pray which is your department? 'Tutis depone in auribus'. Whichever it is, endeavor to shine and excel in it.
For some reason she was almost in tears. 'No, I have not worked for hunger, she replied, 'but I have worked! 'Travaille lavorato? he asked. 'E che lavoro che lavoro? Quel travail est-ce que vous avez fait? He broke into a mixture of Italian and French, instinctively using a foreign language when he spoke to her. 'You have never worked as the world works, he said to her, with sarcasm.
"Only take care you and your Cossacks are not all captured!" said the French grenadier. The French onlookers and listeners laughed. "We'll make you dance as we did under Suvorov...," * said Dolokhov. * "On vous fera danser." "Qu' est-ce qu'il chante?" * asked a Frenchman. * "What's he singing about?" "It's ancient history," said another, guessing that it referred to a former war.
Est-ce bien ainsi que vous traitez vos amis? said she passionately, as Francis Ardry lifted up his whip. 'Bon jour, Monsieur, bon jour, said she, thrusting her head from the side and looking back, as Francis Ardry drove off at the rate of thirteen miles an hour. The milestone The meditation Want to get up? The off-hand leader Sixteen shillings The near-hand wheeler All right.
I asked her if the townspeople knew about Friedrich Froebel, but she looked blank. "Froebel? Froebel?" she asked; "qui est-ce?" "Mais, Madame," I said eloquently, "c'etait un grand homme! Un heros! Le plus grand eleve de Pestalozzi! Aussi grand que Pestalozzi soi-meme!" "Je ne sais!" she returned, with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders. "Je ne sais!
"Est-ce que vous avez l'intention de m'insulter?" said he to me, in a low, furious voice, as he thus outraged, under pretence of arranging the fire. It was time to soothe him a little if possible. "Mais, Monsieur," said I, "I would not insult you for the world. I remember too well that you once said we should be friends."
A youngish sallowish gentleman in spectacles, with a lumpy forehead, seated in a supplementary chair at a corner of the table, here caused a profound sensation by saying, in a raised voice, 'ESKER, and then stopping dead. 'Mais oui, said the foreign gentleman, turning towards him. 'Est-ce que? Quoi donc?
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