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Updated: June 18, 2025
He drank slowly, holding his head far back, and as he brought it straight again, he swung on his heel, for two tears were racing down his cheeks. The mealman wiped his eyes in sympathy; the charcoalman shook his head at the blacksmith, as though to say, "Poor devil!" and Parpon straightway filled their glasses again. Madelinette took the flask to the old sergeant.
There was fury in his face-fury and danger; his hair was disordered, his eyes afire. "Good-day, mealman," he said, and waited. "Duclosse," called Garotte warningly, "remember!" Duclosse's knees shook, and his face became mottled like a piece of soap; he pushed his fingers into his shirt and touched the Agnus Dei that he carried there. That and Garotte's words gave him courage.
She was beside the open door of the oven; and it would be hard to tell whether her face was suffering from heat or from blushes. However that might chance, her mouth was soft and sweet, and her eyes were still wet. "Who is he, Parpon?" she asked, not looking at him. "Is he like Duclosse the mealman, or Lajeunesse the blacksmith, or Garotte the lime-burner-and the rest?"
He heard the sound of a drum in the distance. The gloom and suspense of the night just passed went from him, and into the sunshine he sang: "Oh, grand to the war he goes, O gai, vive le roi!" Not long afterwards he entered the encampment. Around one fire, cooking their breakfasts, were Muroc the charcoalman, Duclosse the mealman, and Garotte the lime-burner. They all were in good spirits.
She had a touch of the vixen an impetuous, loving, forceful mademoiselle, in marked contrast to the rather ascetic Francois, whose ways were more refined than his origin might seem to warrant. "Sapre!" said Duclosse the mealman of the monument; "it's like a timber of cheese stuck up. What's that to make a fuss about?"
"Mark you, I was born a man of fame, walking bloody paths to glory; but, by the grace of Heaven and my baptism, I became a forgeron. Let others ride to glory, I'll shoe their horses for the gallop." "You'll be in Parliament yet, Lajeunesse," said Duclosse the mealman, who had been dozing on a pile of untired cart-wheels. "I'll be hanged first, comrade." "One in the family at a time," said Muroc.
"He's never had but two ideas in his nut-meal and Elise; let him go." The mealman was soon lost to view, unheeding the challenge that rang after him. Lagroin had seen the fugitive from a distance, and came down, inquiring. When he was told he swore that Duclosse should suffer divers punishments. "A pretty kind of officer!" he cried in a fury. "Damn it, is there another man in my army would do it?"
"For my part," Muroc was saying, as Parpon nodded at them, and passed by, "I'm not satisfied." "Don't you get enough to eat?" asked the mealman, whose idea of happiness was based upon the appreciation of a good dinner. "But yes, and enough to drink, thanks to His Excellency, and the buttons he puts on my coat." Muroc jingled some gold coins in his pocket. "It's this being clean that's the devil!
The fall it will be his; and though I strive and strain, One blow will close my eyes, and I shall never waken." "Good enough for Ba'tiste," said Duclosse the mealman. The wave of feeling was now altogether with Francois, and presently he walked away with Jeanne Marchand and her mother, and the crowd dispersed.
"It is my mother and Duclosse the mealman." Valmond recognised the fat, wheezy tones of Duclosse Sergeant Duclosse. He released her, and she caught up the candle. "What can you do?" she whispered. "I will wait here. I must not go down," he replied. "It would mean ruin." Ruin! ruin! Was she face to face with ruin already, she who, two minutes ago, was as safe and happy as a young bird in its nest?
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