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Now it so happened that as Prosper le Gai entered the purlieus of Morgraunt, the Countess Isabel sat in the Abbey parlour of Saint Thorn, knitting her fine brows over a business of the Abbot's, no less than the granting of a new charter of pit and gallows, pillory and tumbril to him and his house over the villeins of Malbank, and the whole fee and soke.
The Golden Knight pulled up short, but held his spear couched against the worst. Prosper spoke again quite cheerfully. "You and I have met, Dame Maulfry." "You are speaking foolishness and wasting my time, Messire. I neither know you nor your dame." "You may have known my shield in more gaudy trim. Did I not turn grave-digger for you some years ago?" "Oh, oh! you are Prosper le Gai?"
And far into the night, through silent Cheapside, a rolling voice swelled through much laughter thus: "Gai Ion la, gai le rosier, Du joli mois de Mai." The next day there were heavy heads in London; but the next day, also, a man lay ill in the hut on the island of St. Jean. Antoine had sung his last song.
Among the great again was seen the ever-favored yet not "gai" Talleyrand. Of the incident Cooper noted: "It is etiquette for the kings of France to dine in public on January 14 and on the monarch's fête-day." Wishing to see this ceremony, Mr. and Mrs. Cooper were sent the better of the two permissions granted for the occasion.
I go all the time, and Lucette Dargois, she go with me and her brother holy, what an eye had she in her head, that Lucette! As we go we sing a song all right, and there is no one sing so better as Norinne: "'C'est la belle Francoise, Allons gai! C'est la belle Francoise, Qui veut se marier, Ma luron lurette! Qui veut se marier, Ma luron lure! "Ver' good, bagosh!
Colonel Philibert recognized the song as one he had heard in the Quartier Latin, during his student life in Paris he fancied he recognized the voice also: "'Pour des vins de prix Vendons tous nos livres! C'est pen d'etre gris, Amis, soyons ivres! Bon. La Faridondaine! Gai. La Faridonde!" A roar of voices and a clash of glasses followed the refrain.
Now and again a sentinel crossed the misty line of vision, silent, and majestically tall, in the soft haze, which came down from Dalgrothe Mountain and fell like a delicate silver veil before the face of the valley. As she looked, lost in a kind of dream, there floated up from the distant tent the refrain she knew so well: "Oh, say, where goes your love? O gai, vine le roi!"
And her reward was this, that Prosper le Gai, the gallant fighter, remained for Melot and her kind a demi-god in steel, while she, his wife, was adjudged to the black ram. To the black ram she was strapped, face to the tail, and so ran the gauntlet of the yelling host in the courtyard, and of the Countess of Hauterive's chill gaze from the parvise.
Even if we reach land, we must soon sink to earth. Without food, water, anything ce n'est pas gai, hein?" "No, it is not gay," the chief answered. "But with machine-guns " "Machine-guns cannot fight against the African sun, against famine, thirst, delirium, madness. Well 'blessed be certainty, as the Arabs say." "You mean death?" "Yes, I mean death.
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