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Updated: June 13, 2025
Their murmurs rose to violent protest on behalf of the poilu. "C'est un heros, tout de meme. Cinq mois dans les tranches! C'est affreux! Mais oui, il est soul, mais pour quoi pas! Apres cinq mois sur le front qu'est-ce que cela signifie? Ca n'a aucune importance!" A dandy French officer of Chasseurs Alpins stepped into the center of the scene and tapped the policeman on the shoulder.
"Well, I didn't choose it," he reminded her, laughing in pure joy, with a boyish note new to her ear. "Anyway, there are only us two under the sun." And he drew her close again, whispering in her ear. "Oh oh, is that the language of medical science?" she reproved. At this point, generic curiosity overcame the feathered eavesdropper in the tree above. "Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?" "What's he say?"
As we got into our saddles the humming-birds were whirring round the tree-tops; the Qu'est-ce qu'il dits inquiring the subject of our talk. The black vultures sat about looking on in silence, hoping that something to their advantage might be dropped or left behind possibly that one of our horses might die.
"Let me tell him what he looks in the eyes of a pure-minded American" "Leave that to me," said I, thrusting Pinkerton clear through the door. "Qu'est-ce qu'il a?" inquired the student. "What's the matter with him?" "Monsieur se sent mal au coeur d'avoir trop regarde votre croute," said I, and made my escape, scarce with dignity, at Pinkerton's heels.
"I feel the responsibility of what she shall find in the life, the standards, of the theatre," Mrs. Rooth explained. "Where is the purest tone where are the highest standards? That's what I ask," the good lady continued with a misguided intensity which elicited a peal of unceremonious but sociable laughter from Gabriel Nash. "The purest tone qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?"
Again the driver climbed down, fiddled about for several seconds, then with immense deliberation approached and opened the door. "What's the matter? Can't you get on? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" she cried, ready to shake him. He shrugged his shoulders and blew his red nose on a huge filthy handkerchief. Then with an air of great philosophy he replied: "Ça marche plus."
She began to feel like a criminal, and struggled stammering in the effort to make her desire known, urgent though it was. "Bien, mademoiselle, qu'est-ce que vous désirez?" the woman rapped out in staccato accents. "Madame, s'il vous plait, je veux bien téléphoner. Je regrette de vous déranger, mais c'est tellement important."
Such amazement as dominated his puny features I have rarely seen equalled. "Qu'est-ce que vous avez foutu avec cette machine-la?" At which cry the planton staggered, rotated, brought his gun clumsily off his shoulder, and stared, trembling all over with emotion, at his superior. "La-bas!" screamed the pimply sergeant de plantons, pointing fiercely in our direction.
"Enfin, elle sait," said he, half dissatisfied, "and one cannot be fastidious or exacting under the circumstances." Then he added, "You may yet have twenty minutes for preparation: au revoir!" And he was going. "Monsieur," I called out, taking courage. "Eh bien! Qu'est-ce que c'est, Mademoiselle?" "J'ai bien faim." "Comment, vous avez faim! Et la collation?" "I know nothing about it.
He read its angular scrawl. "I wish never to see you again. Never! Never! Never!" A sulphur-yellow inquisitor, of a more insinuating manner than the former participant in their conversation, who had been examining the message on his own account, flew to the top of the cliff. "Qu'est-ce qu'elle dit? Qu'est-ce qu'elle dit?" he demanded.
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