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Updated: June 25, 2025
They rediscovered together the Garum, that classic sauce, whose praises had been sung of old by Horace, Martial, and Ausonius; and so child-like, superstitious if you will, was the reverence in the sixteenth century for classic antiquity, that when Pellicier and Rondelet discovered that the Garum was made from the fish called Picarel called Garon by the fishers of Antibes, and Giroli at Venice, both these last names corruptions of the Latin Gerres then did the two fashionable poets of France, Etienne Dolet and Clement Marot, think it not unworthy of their muse to sing the praises of the sauce which Horace had sung of old.
Then followed a clause providing that, in any case, Parpon should have in fee simple the land known as the Bois Noir, and the hut thereon. Armand sprang to his feet in surprise, blurting out something, then sat down, quietly took the will, and read it through carefully. When he had finished he looked inquiringly, first at Monsieur Garon, then at the Cure. "Why Parpon?" he said searchingly.
Strange how, in spite of all evidence against him, she still felt a vital sureness in him somewhere; a radical reality, a convincing quality of presence. At times he seemed like an actor playing his own character. She could never quite get rid of that feeling. In her anxiety for she was in the affair for good or ill she went again to Monsieur Garon.
"If the peace is disturbed, if there is conspiracy to injure a country not at war with our own, if arms are borne with menace, if His Excellency " "His Excellency my faith! You're an ass, Garon!" cried the young Seigneur, with an angry sneer. For once in his life the avocat bridled up.
Ah, Misther Garon, pity a poor woman that has to live wid the loikes o' that!" The Avocat still did not speak. He turned his face away and looked out of the window, where his eyes could see the little house on the hill, which to-day had the Union Jack flying in honour of some battle or victory, dear to Kilquhanity's heart.
Certainly the place had the air of home; it spoke for the absent termagant. M. Garon looked round and saw a half-opened door, through which presently came a voice speaking in a laboured whisper. The Avocat knocked gently at the door. "May I come in, Sergeant?" he asked, and entered. There was no light in the room, but the fire in the kitchen stove threw a glow over the bed where the sick man lay.
Beneath the sword of Louis the Martyr, the great treasure of the parish, presented to this church by Marie Antoinette, sat Monsieur Garon, his thin fingers pressed to his mouth as if to stop a sound. Presently, out of pure spontaneity, there ran through the church like a soft chorus: "O, say, where goes your love? O gai, vive le roi! He wears a silver sword, Vive Napoleon!"
"We shall soon know who is to live here. See, there is Monsieur Garon, and Monsieur Medallion also." "The Avocat to tell secrets, the auctioneer to sell them eh?" Armand went forward to the gate. Like most people, he found Medallion interesting, and the Avocat and he were old friends.
To the pretty lady's words, Monsieur Garon blushed, and his thin hand fluttered to his lips. As if in sympathy, the Cure's fingers trembled to his cassock cord. "Madame, dear madame," the Cure approved by a caressing nod, "we are all the same here in our hearts and in our homes, and if anything seem good in them to us, it is because you are pleased.
Certainly the place had the air of home; it spoke for the absent termagant. M. Garon looked round and saw a half-opened door, through which presently came a voice speaking in a laboured whisper. The Avocat knocked gently at the door. "May I come in, Sergeant?" he asked, and entered. There was no light in the room, but the fire in the kitchen stove threw a glow over the bed where the sick man lay.
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