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Updated: May 8, 2025
"We regret to disturb you, messieurs," began the taller of the two pleasantly as he extracted a note-book from a leather case next to his revolver. "But" and he shrugged his military shoulders "it is for the little affair at Hirondelette." "Which one of us is elected?" asked Tanrade grimly. "Ah! Bon Dieu!" returned the tall one; half apologetically.
It was not until March that the long-gathering storm broke as quick as a crackling lizard of lightning strikes. Le Gros had foreclosed the mortgage. The Château of Hirondelette was up for sale. When de Savignac came out to open the gate for me late that evening his face was as white as the palings in the moonlight.
Three days later Garron passed through the modest village of Hirondelette, an unknown vagabond. He looked so poor that a priest in passing gave him ten sous. "Courage, my son," counselled the good man "you will get work soon. Try the farm below, they are in need of hands." "May you never be in want, father," Garron strangled out huskily in reply.
"I was once groom in his stables oui, monsieur, and he married us when he was Mayor of Hirondelette, and he paid our rent oui, monsieur, and the doctor and...." "We'll proceed, Pierre," said I. "A man of de Savignac's kind in the world is so rare that one should do nothing to thwart him." We walked on for some distance along the edge of a swamp carpeted with strong ferns.
"Monsieur Gaston Emile Le Bour, agriculturist at Hirondelette, charges Monsieur Charles Louis Ernest Tanrade, born in Paris, soldier of the Thirteenth Infantry, musician, composer, with flagrant trespass in his buckwheat on hectare number seven, armed with the gun of percussion on the thirtieth of September at ten-forty-five in the morning."
Yes, indeed, to honour him Mayor of Hirondelette, the little village close to his estate, and de Savignac had to be formal and dignified for the first time in his life this good Bohemian at the village fêtes, at the important meetings of the Municipal Council, composed of a dealer in cattle, the blacksmith and the notary.
"Sold!" yelped the auctioneer "sold to madame the widow Dupuis of Hirondelette," who was now elbowing her broad way through the crowd to her bargain which she struggled out with, red and perspiring, to the mud-smeared lawn, where her eldest daughter shrewdly examined the bedquilt for holes. I turned away when it was all over and followed the crowd out through the gates.
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