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Updated: June 12, 2025
Evening was near when P'tit Maitre, black with powder and crimson with blood, had staggered into the cabin of Jacqueline's mother, his pursuers close at his heels. The sight had stunned her childish reason. She dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for the rest of the quarters had long since been removed beyond her sight and knowledge.
Tell me, you who preach your English sermons, so long, so much longer than our Catholic ones, about trees and rivers and fish do you never preach too about men and women and their faults and vices and tempers? Ah! there, Monsieur le p'tit curé, you should know that I am a good subject for a sermon, I and my temper! For I have a temper. Oh, yes, indeed I have."
I took a perfectly ripping French kid out to dinner last night name's Liane, from the Varietés and she was calling me 'mon grand cheri' before the salad, and 'mon p'tit amour' before the green mint. Maybe that'll buck you up!
Some one had run ahead of her to where P'tit Maitre sat with his family and guests upon the gallery. "P'tit Maitre! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look her yonda totin' Cheri!" This startling intimation was the first which they had of the woman's approach. She was now near at hand. She walked with long strides.
His black eyes snapped and his right hand made feeble motions toward the floor of the wagon where, on a pile of supplies and camp equipment, lay a burlap sack containing something lumpy and rough. "Zose sheep and zose r-rock!" he whispered, shifting to English mixed with accented French. "Pour vous et le bébé! Le p'tit bébé an' she's mère France or " "Never mind the sheep," said Ike.
Little Marian hung on the swinging gate which opened onto the apology for a wagon road. She liked quaint French Pete and looked forward to his return with eagerness. Like her grandfather, he always spoiled her, slavishly submitting to her every whim because she reminded him of his own p'tit bébé, in his far-away, Pyrenean home. Marian was used to being spoiled.
"Fair shot," admitted Tollemache, and he stalked off to his stateroom, while the Count was vociferating, for the last time: Quel bon p'tit roi c'était la! La, la! Between Elsie and de Poincilit the chorus made quite a respectable din. Few noticed that the saloon main companion had been opened again, until the sharp bark of a dog joining in the hand-clapping turned every eye towards the stairway.
Finally, Offenbach appeared. He was a German by birth and his musical ideas naturally rhymed with German in direct contradiction to the French words to which they applied. This constant bungling passed for originality. Sometimes it would have been necessary to change the division of a measure to get a correct melody, as in the song: Un p'tit bonhomme Pas plus haut qu'ça.
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