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Updated: May 5, 2025
The mayor, who was beating time with his knife, cried: "By Jove, that is all right; it is like the wedding of Ganache." A suppressed giggle was heard, but Abbe Picot, the natural enemy of civil authority, cried: "You mean of Cana." The other did not accept the correction. "No, monsieur le cure, I know what I am talking about; when I say Ganache, I mean Ganache."
"It is certainly under such conditions that the Academy selects its candidates," said la Peyrade. "What is your master's name?" "Pere Picot; he is never called otherwise in our quarter; sometimes he goes out into the streets as if dressed for the carnival, and all the little children crowd about him, calling out: 'How d'ye do, Pere Picot!
She resolved to go and see Abbe Picot and tell him, under the seal of confession, all that weighed upon her mind in this matter. He was reading from his breviary in his little garden planted with fruit trees when she arrived. After a few minutes' conversation on indifferent matters, she faltered, her color rising: "I want to confess, Monsieur l'Abbe."
Abbe Picot looked at him sideways, as he did when he was in a joking mood, and said: "You see, abbe, in order to prevent those happenings, you will have to chain up your parishioners; and even that would not be of much use." The little priest replied sharply: "We shall see." And the older man smiled as he took a pinch of snuff, and said: "Age will calm you down, abbe, and experience also.
First he related the curious episode of pere Picot. Then he told of the hearty approbation given to Felix's conduct by the Abbe Gondrin, and the desire the young preacher had expressed to meet him. "I'll go and see him," said Felix; "do you know where he lives?" "Rue de la Madeleine, No. 8," replied Minard.
Towards the end of September the Abbé Picot came to the château, in a new cassock which had only one week's stains upon it, to introduce his successor, the Abbé Tolbiac. The latter was small, thin, and very young, with hollow, black-encircled eyes which betokened the depth and violence of his feelings, and a decisive way of speaking as if there could be no appeal from his opinion.
Pere Picot was a tall old man, with an angular, stern face, who, despite the corrective of a blond wig with heavy curls, and that of the pacific green shade we have already mentioned, expressed on his large features, upon which the fury of study had produced a surface of leaden pallor, a snappish and quarrelsome disposition.
"Nay, he will only harm himself, Angelique. And, by St. Picot! he will have ample scope for doing it in this city. He has no other enemy but himself." De Pean felt that she was making an ox of him to draw the plough of her scheming. "Are you sure of that, De Pean?" demanded she, sharply. "Quite sure. Are not all the associates of the Grand Company his fastest friends?
"The most brilliant and most active members of it," says M. Picot correctly, "had ranged themselves behind Henry IV.; and it covered itself with eternal honor by having been the first to discern where to look for the hopes and the salvation of France."
Again I seemed to be in Boston Town; but the hunting room had become a northland forest, M. Picot, a bearded man with his back to the fire and his face in the dark, and our slim foils, naked swords that pressed and parried and thrust in many a foul such as the French doctor had taught me was a trick of the infamous Blood!
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