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Updated: June 24, 2025
The waiter was summoned. He made excuse. "Mille tonnerres! Ventrebleu!" roared Burton with a volley of unutterable language which he only could translate. The waiter literally flew before the storm, looking back at the witness with "Mais, mon Dieu, l'Anglais!"
Now the Englishman, in taking his Appartement, or, as one might say on our side of the Channel, his set of chambers, had given his name, correct to the letter, LANGLEY. But as he had a British way of not opening his mouth very wide on foreign soil, except at meals, the Brewery had been able to make nothing of it but L'Anglais. So Mr. The Englishman he had become and he remained.
This toast, recalling at once the patient exile of Hartwell and the peace-loving King of France, excited universal enthusiasm; glasses were elevated in the air a l'Anglais, and the ladies, snatching their bouquets from their fair bosoms, strewed the table with their floral treasures. In a word, an almost poetical fervor prevailed.
L'Anglais sur nos frontieres Porte ses etendards; Exauces nos prieres, Protegez nos remparts!" The hymn ceased. Both stood mute until the watchman cried the hour in the silent street. "God bless their holy prayers, and good-night and God bless you, Angelique!" said Le Gardeur, kissing her.
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