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Updated: June 23, 2025
"That is Jacques Rival, the celebrated writer and duelist. He came to correct his proofs. Garin, Montel and he are the best witty and realistic writers we have in Paris. He earns thirty thousand francs a year for two articles a week." As they went downstairs, they met a stout, little man with long hair, who was ascending the stairs whistling. Forestier bowed low.
So she trotted back with a large piece of the mutton that they issue to our troops, laid it down on my verandah, and looked up to see what I thought. I asked her where Garin was, and she ran in front of the horse to show me the way. About a mile up the road we came across our artilleryman sitting very stiffly on the edge of a culvert with a greasy handkerchief on his knees.
That he loved her was with him now a matter that had sunk into comparative insignificance. The sentiment that ruled his mind was anger, with its natural concomitant the desire to punish. And when morning came the Deputy's view of the situation was still unchanged. He was astir at an early hour, and without so much as waiting to break his fast, he bade Garin bring in the prisoners.
Should the morning still find him unequal to the task of going after her, he would despatch Garin and his men. At last they reached the cottage it was little more and Garin rapped on the door with his whip. It was opened by a woman, who told them, in answer to the corporal's request for shelter, that her husband was from home, and that she had no accommodation for them.
The hospitals are saved. It is a glorious thing to have driven a dump-cart for one's country so." "But what became of our Plooie?" besought the Bonnie Lassie. The big man spread his arms in a wide, Gallic gesture. "They looked for him everywhere. No sign. But by and by some one saw a quite large piece of mud on the hospital roof begin to wriggle. The little Garin was that large piece of mud.
Vixen retreated to the protection of my whip, and the bull paddled back smiling more than ever, covered with the blood of his enemies. That decided me to call him "Garin of the Bloody Breast," who was a great person in his time, or "Garm" for short; so, leaning forward, I told him what his temporary name would be. He looked up while I repeated it, and then raced away. I shouted "Garin!"
Hitherto the monks, when periodically dressing the image, had done so with modestly averted eyes, but Suchet's soldiers had no such scruples. This image had been entrusted in the ninth century to a hermit, Jean Garin. Now Riguilda, daughter of the Count of Barcelona, was possessed by a devil, in another word, crazy, and was sent to be cured by the image or the hermit.
"I have seen this Dermot," said de Marsan, "and a choice group of cut- throats he had collected about him. Garin de Biterres was one of them, by the way." "He was always over-fond of laying wagers," yawned d'Acunha. "He is probably betting his head on this Irish wild-goose chase."
"Yet the most important fact in the political history of recent years is the possibility, I should say the necessity, to introduce unity of views in the government of the republic. These are ideas which you, my dear Garin, have expressed with rare eloquence." M. Berthier-d'Eyzelles kept silence. Senator Loyer rolled crumbs with his fingers.
Garin had never seen, but could distinguish night or darkness by one eye only, and recognized orange and red when placed close to that eye. He could tell at once the sex and age of a person approximately by the voice and tread, and formed his conclusions more rapidly in regard to females than males.
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